The Prom
by mythirdeye
Summary: Just a bit of fluff about the Prom. Chloe/Lex. PG-13 for language
1. The Prom Haze

This is definitely a Chloe/Lex. Wouldn't have it any other way.  
  
DISCLAIMER: Smallville is not mine and will never be mine, because if it was mine, then I wouldn't be writing fanfiction, I would be writing their scripts.  
  
  
  
* * * * * *  
  
CHLOE  
  
The Prom is in two days and Fate has already paid a visit to Smallville, sprinkling fairy dust over her favorite people to secure a magical, or at least eventful, night to remember.  
  
In front of me, Clark's normally woeful face has been uplifted into a dreamy smile. Forget the weight of the world on his shoulders for now, he's got other things to be happier about. At this precise moment in the pause of a conversation, coffee blatantly ignored and where all other life forms cease to exist, Clark is blessing the twist of fate that had Whitney shipped off to visit a sick Aunt in Metropolis and left Lana dateless. Making him, of course, the number one willing contender applying for the position of Lana's stand-in 'friendly' date.  
  
And of course, Lana accepted. Just two minutes ago, in fact. A quick moment of hesitation, long enough to kill Clark's fragile heart with the agony of suspense, before she agreed with an uncertain smile, assuring Clark that Whitney couldn't mind, since they're only FRIENDS. Right.  
  
Sitting next to him, Pete is blessing the twist of fate that had Clark manhandling him, kicking and screaming, down the busy corridor to stand within two feet of The Hot Chick who normally sits next to him in English. Then thumped continuously on the back by the same friend so he could manage to get the question out.  
  
Now they both sit in front of me, my normally dateless comrades, either one of whom I was sure I could make an impromptu prom date, which explains why I'm the only one in this little threesome without a prom date (okay that's not the only reason, but never mind).  
  
And so here I sit, in front of them, cursing Fate for leaving me without a Prom date and without a hope in procuring a Prom date in hell, never mind TWO DAYS.  
  
And while I'm at it, sit in front of my two best buddies, both of which keep on trailing off in conversations and getting caught up in what I can only describe as the Prom Haze. Gloating over their victories and dreaming of the magic that is to come within the next 48 hours.  
  
The bastards!  
  
Taking several deep breaths, I collect myself.  
  
Momentarily pulled away from the Prom Haze, Clark peers at me and says, "Chloe, are you alright?"  
  
I assure him that I am, the redness of my face is just from the heat, need a drink of water is all, and apparently satisfied by my answer, despite the freezing weather, Clark dives back into the Prom Haze.  
  
Hmph.  
  
To occupy my time, I gaze at the other customers of the Talon.  
  
Everyone appears to be happy enough. If any of them are sulking over no Prom dates, they're certainly not showing it. But hey, maybe everyone does have a Prom date. Except me.  
  
And maybe Lex Luthor sitting over there at the corner, but I doubt that he would worry over trivial matters like Prom dates when he was our age. But then again, Lex Luthor probably would have had no problems getting dates.  
  
Yes. Trivial matters.  
  
I'm a modern girl of this century, and who gives a cow if I go to the Prom without a date? It's a stupid tradition anyway. Waste your money on dresses and breaks your heart and builds your hopes up just so it could efficiently kill it later and makes you think murderous thoughts of the lucky girl who gets crowned Prom Queen for no other reason than the fact that she is the prettiest.  
  
Screw the Prom.  
  
Oh but DAMMIT, I already bought the damn dress!  
  
From beneath my furrowed eyebrows, I glare at the two offenders who have both unwittingly stuck a big fat neon label LOSER on my forehead by leaving me dateless and are both looking very pleased for it.  
  
They beam at me, oblivious to my glares. Because they're either too deeply embedded in the Prom Haze to notice or making a valiant effort to keep me from raining on their parade.  
  
Ready to talk about anything but the Prom, I open my mouth to comment on anything, when an enthusiastic Clark says, "You know Lex said he'd lend me his limo!"  
  
Despite the fact that any time one of us mentions the name 'Lex', Pete would immediately scowl and go into sullen mode (obviously the Prom Haze changes all of your earlier opinions and revises them to more agreeable standards), his grin widens at Clark's words. "That is smooth, Clark. Clara would have to deal with my Dad's car."  
  
Forever generous, except when it comes to his blonde friend, he offers, "Well hey, maybe we can double date, then we'll BOTH get to use the limo."  
  
"Are you kidding me? My one date with Clara and you want me to share it with you and Lana? Forget it, man. Thanks anyway."  
  
"Your loss. Hey, Pete, where are you getting your tux?"  
  
I gape at both of them, at ease in a conversation about Prom preparations while pointedly ignoring the fact that their solitary friend sitting with them has been simultaneously stabbed in the front by both of them.  
  
The injustice of it all brings me to a level of sourness that could turn solid and glow green and affect my genes, turning me into an Incredible Hulk like creature sulking in my seat and ready to wreak havoc on luckier and prettier people.  
  
But at this moment, I have another option opening itself up to me.  
  
I could just not go.  
  
I could save my (beautiful, pink and beautiful) Prom dress for another occasion. Then on the night itself, I could just stay home! And watch television! And not have to worry about looking pretty or manicures or hairdos or impressing my date or killing my feet by dancing in shoes that were not designed for dancing! I could pig out and watch a movie and be totally comfortable!  
  
Yes, screw the Prom!  
  
Resolved in this new positive, albeit pathetic, outlook, I beam at my two friends (traitors) and say loudly, "I think I'll skip the Prom this year."  
  
They stop talking and look at me.  
  
"Why?" Pete asks in a way that says he doesn't really want to know why.  
  
"Because the Prom is wrong," I inform him airily. "All wrong for the modern girl of this century. To have to resort to getting a lowly man to ask her, then spend too much money on a dress for what? For a lousy corsage and photo and aching feet and years of therapy's worth of insecurity if you don't get the title, which is a 100% chance if Lana Lang is in your school, and…."  
  
"Because you don't have a date?" Pete guesses.  
  
All calmness is flying out the door, slowly but surely. "No, I don't have a date," I paste a grin on my face. "But that's hardly the point. You see, I don't WANT a date, I don't even want to go…."  
  
"We could find you a date," Clark cuts in. "Or you could go with me and Lana!" I groan loudly. "We're only going as friends!" he protests.  
  
"Oh, please." Thankfully Pete hasn't gone into the Prom Haze so much as to not roll his eyes skyward at that plastic comment.  
  
"I'd really rather not, thanks all the same," I mutter darkly.  
  
"So we'll get you a date!" Pete says, triumphantly, as if he's just found a cure for world hunger.  
  
"And how do you propose on doing that? Digging out Lex Luthor's lake where my last date presides then microwaving him?"  
  
"I'm pretty sure we could find someone better than that," Clark says reassuringly.  
  
"In TWO DAYS?!" I almost yell, or maybe I did yell, because everyone looks up and stares at me. I've even managed to capture the attention of Lex Luthor, cocking an eyebrow at me, from the corner of the Talon.  
  
Forget the Incredible Hulk, my sourness has reached peaks I never thought possible.  
  
I smile in an attempt to inject my former nonchalant self over the frumpy neurotic loser that I have become.  
  
Pete shrugs. "Yeah, you really need a date." Clark nods in agreement.  
  
I glare at both of them. Traitorous mutts.  
  
Before I cause another scene, I decide that maybe it's just better if I leave the whole area and start my pigging out session immediately, with no further delay.  
  
If you find no comfort in your friends, then find your comfort in ice- cream.  
  
With assurances from both Clark and Pete that my dating problems will soon be at an end, I leave. Quickly. 


	2. The Favor

LEX  
  
* * * * * *  
  
It's been a few minutes since Chloe portrayed a darker image of her usual charismatic self by screaming, "TWO DAYS" in the faces of her bewildered buddies and left not two minutes after.  
  
I sense trouble in the threesome paradise.  
  
It's not hard to presume where that came from.  
  
The whole of Smallville seems to be in a restless flutter of spirits, which can only mean two things: football season and the Prom. Since football season has come and gone, with yet another victory in the Smallville trophy case of fame, despite the fact that the insipid jocks still insist on wearing those letterman jackets, come rain or shine, through the simple matter of deduction, it is quite obviously the Prom.  
  
Which is, coincidentally, in two days.  
  
Since Clark informed me earlier of the fact that's he's going with Lana and Pete has that grin on his face that could rival the size of Kansas, it's evident from the sullen look on Chloe's face that she's the only one of the merry and single threesome left empty-handed. She was probably hoping against hope for Clark to ask her until the very last minute, the poor hapless girl.  
  
Thank God I never have to go through that.  
  
I lean back in my seat and observe the customers idly chattering away, the younger generation whispering excitedly to one another, making plans for the upcoming Prom, looming over the horizon like a magic kingdom, or a black spot of insecurity.  
  
This town is truly amazing.  
  
Of all the freaky incidents that have occurred in this town, they still manage to find ways to worry about frivolous things.  
  
Or maybe you just need to be younger, idealistic and carefree, the very opposite of me.  
  
I'm interrupted from this self-destructing reverie at the image of Clark who slides into the seat opposite mine, absolutely uninvited. Clark is the only person in my world who can get away with this.  
  
He sports a gloomy look on his normally amiable-with-a-dash-of-woe face.  
  
"What's eating you, Clark?"  
  
He shrugs, eyes scouring the Talon, resting for a moment on Lana, before turning back to me. "Chloe. I need to find her a date for the Prom."  
  
I nod. Typical. Solve all problems by finding a substitute date and forcing him onto her company. That would make a girl feel better. Kids.  
  
"Any candidates?" I ask.  
  
He shakes his head, still gloomy. He has the date of his life in two days and he still manages to worry over his friends. "Can't think of anyone. Aside from people she most definitely would not want to date."  
  
"Does Chloe know of your intention to find her a date?" he nods. "And she AGREED to it?" I ask, in disbelief. If there were one person that I thought had an ounce of common sense in all of Smallville aside from the Kent family, it would be Chloe Sullivan. This is not a typical action taken by people with common sense, desperate or not. Evidently that scratches Clark off my sensible people list.  
  
"Not really."  
  
"Then why are you worrying about this?"  
  
"I want Chloe to be happy. It's not fair that Pete and I are the only ones."  
  
"You make your own happiness, Clark. Worry about your date with Lana."  
  
He thinks about this, and finally, "I can't."  
  
The boy is just too good to be real.  
  
I try another tactic. "Why are you even thinking of finding her a date when she doesn't want you to?"  
  
"It seemed like a good idea at the time."  
  
"Clark, do not insult the lady," I advise him. He looks at me questioningly. I sigh. "The girl doesn't have a date, Clark. It's two days to the Prom. Do you really want to make her a charity case by forcing someone's company on her? Chloe needs her dignity." I lean back in my seat. "Chloe needs a real man, not a last minute preparation."  
  
Then I, having made my point and making a mental note to inform Chloe to thank me later, sip my coffee.  
  
Clark starts pondering on my words and the tortured and contorted facial expressions he goes through is enough to keep anyone entertained for a good half-hour. Which is just as well, because his pondering stretches beyond the ordinary time limit.  
  
From the expressions on his face, he's obviously arguing with himself about something, in one moment looking like he's about to say something then changing his mind. I allow this amusing bit of schizophrenia to continue for a few minutes before I finally prompt him to spit out what's in his head.  
  
"We're friends, right Lex?"  
  
Conversations that start with lines like that never amount to anything good.  
  
"I'm lending you my limo, aren't I?"  
  
He nods. "Exactly. And Lex, you can totally forget about the limo if you do me another favor instead."  
  
I knew what it was before he even said it.  
  
"Ask Chloe to the Prom!"  
  
This time, I find myself wrestling with my brain, over what could possibly inspire Clark to ask ME of all people to ask Chloe to the Prom, besides blatant desperation. Finally, I have the answer, "You're out of your mind, Clark."  
  
"No, listen Lex. It'd be great! I mean, you LIKE Chloe, right?"  
  
"Well, yes, but…"  
  
"So it definitely wouldn't kill you to take her out."  
  
"Clark, what could have possibly made you think of me as a likely candidate to take a young girl to her Prom?"  
  
"The fact that it's two days to go and everyone else probably has a date."  
  
Seeing as the boy had an answer to everything, I opt for another level of logic. "Do you trust me with Chloe?"  
  
"Of course!" he says brightly, then darkens. "Shouldn't I?"  
  
"Yes, but you see Clark, it's not like everyone WOULD."  
  
"That doesn't matter, Lex."  
  
"That 'everyone' might include Chloe."  
  
He waves a hand at this. "Chloe would see it as a challenge more than anything. Going out with Lex Luthor! She'd probably write an article about it."  
  
Now there was the biggest incentive for not taking Chloe to the Prom, if ever I heard one.  
  
"Did you go to your Prom, Lex?"  
  
"I attended an all boys boarding school, Clark."  
  
"So there you go! You've never experienced the Prom, so this is your perfect opportunity!"  
  
I don't care to point out that not everyone's idea of a perfect opportunity is to relive the shitty time I had to go through at their age, and the Prom was not on the highest of my to-do list.  
  
But upon seeing the hopeful look on Clark's face, I feel something inside me relent. I wasn't about to puncture Clark's hopes and have him worrying over his friend when he should be rejoicing in his own victory.  
  
Add to the fact that the boy did save my life and I do owe him a lot.  
  
Add again to the fact that he would never let up until he receives a favorable answer and he knows that I know it.  
  
And, it might be fun. I've always enjoyed Chloe's scintillating, intelligent and usually snippy personality. As long as the night doesn't turn into a one-on-one interview for the Torch, I think I could stand to enjoy myself.  
  
I could just not talk to her at all for the whole event, if it came to that.  
  
So I found myself agreeing to Clark's little proposal, and more jabbing and pleas from the boy wonder had me abandoning my work for the afternoon to start on my little promise as soon as humanly possible, or as fast as my car would drive me.  
  
Two hours later, I was standing on the front porch of the Sullivan household, knocking on the door.  
  
All the while promising myself to grant Clark no further favors if Chloe turns me down. Friendship is not worth the price of embarrassment. 


	3. The Proposition

LEX  
  
I have been standing on this porch for much too long, freezing my head off and in a space of fifteen minutes have managed to record this eventful moment as the biggest waste of time in my life.  
  
Why am I still here?  
  
I have a favor to perform. Considering Clark rarely asks me for any favor, I feel like I should do this one right.  
  
Not to mention the fact that I know that she's home and purposefully avoiding the person who has been incessantly knocking on her door for the past quarter of an hour, and I refuse to give up until she gets her ass in front of me and lets me finish what it is that I came here to do.  
  
The girl is quite obviously hiding from the world. I know she's home, I can hear the television clearly, and that indicates life in there.  
  
I knock again, three times, my fifth time, and promising vehemently to myself that if she does not open the door then I will leave.  
  
After another two minutes, I knock one last time.  
  
And finally, I hear something. Unmistakable footsteps stomping towards the door in resignation, heavy sounds that indicate that it could come from a grizzly bear, not a tiny little blonde with too much attitude. Obviously thinking that if waiting for the past twenty minutes in the cold would not make me go away, then hearing the quiver in the floorboards at her angry steps would do the trick.  
  
The door is flung open and Chloe stands before me in one of her less prettier moments.  
  
Her face, at first scowling, now registers shock at the sight of me.  
  
The shock manages to satisfy my impatience at having to wait out in the cold for the past twenty minutes, if only a little bit.  
  
"Mr. Luthor," she says, in disdain.  
  
I choose to ignore the disdain. "Good afternoon, Chloe," I greet.  
  
She shakes her head as if to clear it and manages a smile, all the while keeping the disdain in her voice. "So what brings you to this part of Smallville, Mr. Luthor?"  
  
"Lex."  
  
"Lex," she amends.  
  
We stare at each other. I'm quite aware that this is the right moment to speak my purpose, seeing as she's finally standing in front of me, but for some reason I'm unable to get the words out of my mouth. A thought has struck me, because all the while I've been semi-confident that Chloe would agree to be my date, I've never actually really thought that she would turn me down, because quite frankly, there's never been a girl in my history who has.  
  
But now, being here, Chloe showing her irritation at me for disrupting her television time for the whole world to see, I'm beginning to have my doubts.  
  
She continues looking at me expectantly. Obviously she wants me to get to the heart of the matter, but from her viewpoint she doesn't see how difficult that is.  
  
"My father's at the plant," she offers.  
  
"I actually came to see you."  
  
"Oh?" her eyebrows rise.  
  
"I have a proposition for you, Chloe."  
  
Clearly intrigued, and not the least bit polite in inviting me into her house despite the fact that she has left me outside of her house freezing my bald head off for a good long while, she leans against the doorframe and waits for me to continue.  
  
"Nice and cold today, isn't it?" I remark.  
  
She visibly cringes. "Oh, right. Sorry. Come on in, Lex."  
  
Without waiting to hear my answer, she turns on her heels and troops inside, leaving me to follow her. I pass a living room with a long sofa that looks inviting enough to stretch out and sleep in, Julia Roberts paused in mid-action on the television screen, and ice-cream on the coffee table.  
  
"You're going to have to excuse the mess," she says while walking into a room. I follow her. It's a kitchen, large, sunny and homely with wooden cabinets. Very much opposite the dungeon that is the kitchen at my place. "Visitors in the Sullivan household are few and far between." She bends over, looking inside a cabinet. "Want some coffee?"  
  
I'm suddenly arrested by the view her backside gives me. Pleasurable viewing, never mind that it's coming from the body of a 16 year old girl who would plainly stab me if I dared grab the object of my viewing.  
  
Remembering myself, "Sure. Coffee." Rather than standing in the middle of the kitchen aimlessly, I take a seat near the table.  
  
She finally emerges with two mugs and spoons coffee (instant, not something I would usually drink) into each one then pours hot water over it.  
  
I observe her while she goes through the motions, knowing where each and everything is without having to turn around and look. Her blonde hair is messier than usual today, and falls over her face. The sweater she wears is baggy and shows no hint of a shape but it seems to drape around her shoulders very pleasingly, the wide collar slipping to the left a notch and exposing pale skin.  
  
The girl is undeniably cute, the kind of cute that bring forth images of biting soft creamy flesh to my head.  
  
But that is not the reason why I have come here today.  
  
Finished in her good hostess duties, she nudges a jar of sugar my way then sits in the chair opposite mine, crosses her legs, and sips daintily at her coffee.  
  
"So," she says.  
  
"So," I agree. "How's the Torch going along?"  
  
She fights away her impatience, obviously not wanting me in her kitchen and taking her attention away from Pretty Woman any longer than is absolutely necessary, but she did leave me standing outside her house for a long time, so it's quite rightly her turn to suffer.  
  
"Fine."  
  
"That's good," I reply, and take a leisurely sip of my coffee. I add, airily, "I don't usually drink instants, but this is pretty good."  
  
"It's garden variety Nescafe, Lex."  
  
"Still good."  
  
"So what type of coffee do you usually take in the Luthor castle?"  
  
"The non-instant kind."  
  
She taps her fingers on the table and glares at me in resolute silence.  
  
I get the hint. "Obviously you want to hear the proposition," I put my coffee down.  
  
"Obviously."  
  
I take a deep breath and lean forward, looking her in the eye. I'm ready to drop my voice down several tenors to husky, a move I usually save for women I'm interested in when I remember that Chloe is not the normal variety of women, in need of a Prom date or not. I lean back again and return to my normal asshole self.  
  
She grows more impatient by the second.  
  
"Chloe," I start and pause. I feel the annoyance radiating from her side of the table.  
  
I look her in the eye, big blue eyes, not bothering to mask the irritation brewing in them, yet she looks nervous at what I'm going to say.  
  
"I want to take you to the Prom."  
  
  
  
CHLOE  
  
Never, in any normal circumstance, do I allow myself to gape.  
  
There are several reasons for this fact, all of them very good ones. But the biggest one of all would be that I am not in my prettiest position when my mouth hangs open. And I'll have you know that I have a very big mouth. A planet could float into my mouth.  
  
I close my mouth with a click.  
  
Oh my God, is Lex Luthor really sitting there, right in front of me, in my kitchen, and asking me to go to the Prom with him?  
  
Of all the unlikely scenarios ever thought up in the world, this one has to take the cake. Not only does this man stand outside of my house knocking for the better part of an hour, but he's damn rich and my father's boss and kind of sexy in a quasi evil manner and has seen me at my worst but has just upped the level of weirdness by asking me out.  
  
I'm not insensible of what a compliment this is to such a humble person as myself, but other pressing matters are exploding in my brain.  
  
An answer to all my problems!  
  
I would have a DATE to the Prom! And not a forced one, as pre-arranged by Clark and Pete and their good but dumb intentions, but a voluntary one!  
  
AND I get to wear my dress!  
  
And all this would really be good and well if I didn't hear Clark and Peter's insistent voices in my head calling after me as I stumble my way out of the Talon. "We'll get you a date, Chloe!"  
  
Realization dawned abruptly. "Did Clark put you up to this?"  
  
He replies smoothly, "Not at all." But he's a businessman. They must have taken some degree course that teaches them the mechanics of dishonesty to effectively lie through their teeth.  
  
"Right," I say, distrustfully. "If he didn't then why are you asking me to go to the Prom with you? Shoot me for saying so, but I cannot believe that Lex Luthor in all his greatness would even bat an eyelid to help salvage a girl's little bits of scattering pride by taking her to the Prom."  
  
He seems to take this remark in stride. Probably gets accused of things all his life.  
  
"Because I like you," he says simply. I snort. "And I'm liking you all the more now."  
  
I knew it. I knew that Clark would actually go this low to get me a date, with goddamn LEX LUTHOR for crap's sake. And it didn't take him long to immediately start the 'Get Chloe Sullivan a Prom Date' campaign. Just went right up to Lex and told him to take my sorrow off of his hands. The bastard.  
  
Since Clark is not around, I glare at the only other offender in this nightmare I call my life, while he meets my stare calmly, eyes strikingly blue.  
  
Hmmm. My less sane mind wanders into a garden of whimsical thoughts where I can actually spend a full minute wondering if the striking color of Lex Luthor's eyes is blue or green.  
  
Then my less sane mind starts dwelling on other thoughts. Lex Luthor, staring at me, sitting there, draped across my chair, legs stretched out in front of him, shoulders broad, air around him irresistibly detached….  
  
And here I find myself struck with equally mortifying thoughts.  
  
He came here with a proposition for crap's sake, not even a date, and he has the gall to sit in my kitchen and look so smoldering and sexy and… oh my God I'm here thinking of how YUMMY he looks and how nice it would be to jump his bones right now.  
  
I mentally slap myself across the face.  
  
"You know," his voice cuts through my thoughts, naked thoughts of him in my kitchen, I have gone stark raving mad. "It really is just a yes or no question."  
  
"Really, I hadn't noticed," I mutter, still busy chasing the images out of my head.  
  
"So would you like to go with me or wouldn't you?"  
  
"The jury's still out."  
  
"I've never had to beg, Chloe, and I don't intend to start now."  
  
"I never asked you to beg, Lex."  
  
"I'll make sure you enjoy yourself." Dammit. Why did he have to say THAT of all things?  
  
"Lex, you're going to have to understand my hesitation here. The way I see it, you're either genuinely doing this out of the goodness of your own heart, which makes me charity, or Clark asked you to, which is still charity." I pause and look at him. "Do I look like a charity case to you?"  
  
"This is not charity," he assures me.  
  
"So what is it?"  
  
"A proposition. I don't have plans this weekend and you're in need of a date. We can help each other."  
  
I really can't imagine Lex Luthor with nothing to do on a weekend. Actually, he'd probably be a real nightmare with time on his hands. Probably stalks the castle looking for victims to feed meteorite pebbles to.  
  
"You know, I bet you couldn't find a more un-romantic alternative to the word 'date' even if you tried."  
  
"It's an honest request, Chloe. Just say yes."  
  
I quarrel with my indecision then to my alarm, he leans forward, takes both of my hands in his, and looks at me imploringly. The shortness of breath that ensues this does not help the naked images one bit. "Please?" he says, his voice husky, with a hint of a smile.  
  
I take a deep breath, and in spite of myself, say, "Yes."  
  
  
  
LEX  
  
Victory.  
  
There is nothing that smells sweeter than victory.  
  
At this moment, there is nothing that looks sweeter than the object of my victory. Chloe has blushed several shades of crimson and seems to be tucking herself further into that little wooden chair than I thought humanly possible.  
  
Ah, but the sweet smell of victory. It doesn't matter what the conquest, or the significance of it, because they can all be equally challenging.  
  
And I have found quite a challenger in Chloe Sullivan. Besides insulting me and denting my ego and getting me to resort to begging, she has managed to effectively make me suffer for the past hour that I have been in this house. I would hate to think what she would do to the world if she went into business.  
  
But right now, scoring my victory against all odds (it certainly seemed that way), I lean back and breathe in deeply. That sweet smell (besides the pleasing apple scent that emanates from Chloe) is victory, and Chloe has become one of my favorite conquests.  
  
I knew if I fixed my move on her she'd see the light. I should have done it earlier. Chloe Sullivan is a normal girl after all.  
  
"But," she says.  
  
My triumph pauses.  
  
"But what?"  
  
"I'll go to the Prom with you," she says slowly. "Only if you grant me an interview."  
  
She's out of her fucking mind, but these are small circumstances. The general point is just to take her to the Prom. "Fine."  
  
"And I'll be able to ask you ANY question and you'll allow me to print every single thing out of your mouth onto the paper without any hassles whatsoever."  
  
"ANY question?"  
  
"Any question."  
  
And I can just imagine what sort of questions she would be asking. I see the words 'Level Three', 'Club Zero' and 'Nicodemus Flower' forming in her scheming brain, right now.  
  
The favor did not include a night of torture on my part. Believe me, I'm not that nice a guy.  
  
Forget Clark, forget favors, forget any future favors for Clark, forget that I have ever been out of my mind to come here and actually ask this insane girl to the Prom. "Forget it."  
  
"Okay, fine," she amends quickly. "We'll make it a human interest story! Lowly Reporter Snags Billionaire's Son And Goes To Prom."  
  
"Billionaire's Son Would Be Out Of His Fucking Mind."  
  
"Well then fine, Lex Luthor. Be that way. Then we'll both be dateless this weekend, or at least I'll be, and you'll face the sorrowful look on Clark's face and the guilt when you hear about me paired up with some guy who would rather do anything else other than be at the Prom with me."  
  
"Guilt does not take any skin off my back, Chloe."  
  
"Yes but I will make you suffer eternally for it."  
  
I pause. Personally I doubt that Chloe would be able to make me suffer eternally for anything, but the girl is an adamant creature.  
  
"You couldn't just go to the Prom with me in a limousine, could you?"  
  
"You get the good guy image. I need my fringe benefits."  
  
In ordinary circumstances, I could turn on the Lex Luthor charm and suggest to her exactly what kind of fringe benefits I could be giving her in return, tempting as that sounds at this moment when her collar has gone further down her shoulder, exposing more skin, but seeing how my past move failed to make an impact on her, I doubt this one would work.  
  
"Okay," I relent, and she lets out a tiny little yip of triumph. "But I will not answer any questions that I don't want to answer. Understood?"  
  
"Absolutely," she says, airily. Then sticks her hand out to me. "It's a deal, Mr. Luthor."  
  
"Yes it is," I shake her hand. It's tiny and my hand engulfs it, but it's firm.  
  
And there it is.  
  
I've achieved what I came here for, to get Chloe Sullivan to agree to go to the Prom with me. I've had to go through all sorts of shit for it, but I've done it.  
  
I swear to God, Clark better be fucking thankful. 


	4. The Next Day

CLARK  
  
One more day to the Prom and I could be the luckiest guy in the world.  
  
From my viewpoint in the cafeteria, I find myself arrested by the perfect version that is Lana Lang. I watch her laughing with her friends, taking delicate bites of her food and sips of her drink. Her dark hair is loose today and frames her tiny face. She really is so beautiful, but much more than that, so much more. She's so unaffected by her looks. She's sweet and nice, much nicer than most girls I know.  
  
And she's my date for the Prom!  
  
I know that I should be 'basking in my victory' as Lex puts it, but at this moment, despite how beautiful Lana looks today, I've got other things on my mind.  
  
As good as the idea seemed at the time, I'm beginning to wonder whether it was smart of me to get Lex to ask Chloe to the Prom. Although Lex assured me that he wouldn't tell Chloe that I put him up to it, I'm pretty sure that she'd take a wild guess.  
  
And my guess would be that the result would not look pretty.  
  
Which is why I've been avoiding Chloe all day, which is hard considering that I'm taller than everyone so it makes it difficult for me to hide. She almost found me three times this morning, and I would have hidden in the library at lunch if my stomach didn't get the better of me.  
  
Now I know she'll find me.  
  
And, she would probably be-  
  
"CLARK KENT!"  
  
-downright angry.  
  
I look up to find Chloe standing in front of me, glaring holes into the back of my head, boot tapping and face red with annoyance.  
  
"Hey, Chloe. What's up?"  
  
She drops into the seat opposite mine with a thump. "What is the deal with Lex Luthor asking me to the Prom?"  
  
I pretend to look surprised. "Lex asked you to the Prom? That's great, Chloe! Now you have a date!"  
  
"As if I wouldn't know that this was your bright idea, Clark."  
  
I try. "It wasn't?" Chloe glares at me. "Okay, okay, but the point is you have a date."  
  
"No, I beg to differ. The point is I have a date as pre-arranged by my buddy Clark."  
  
"Same thing?"  
  
She looks like she's about to throw something at me, probably the plastic knife she has clenched in her hand. "NO, Clark, not even close."  
  
I decide that maybe I should stop defending myself and concentrate on cheering her up. "But that doesn't matter, Chloe. The point is you'll have fun! Don't you always have fun with Lex?"  
  
"Gee, I don't know Clark. Refresh my memory. Have you ever SEEN me having fun with Lex?"  
  
"There are first times for everything," I say feebly.  
  
Bad mistake. She explodes, all over the cafeteria, loud enough for everyone to look at us. She goes into an all-out Chloe rant, which is never good, and I can't catch most of her words except for little bits like, "I cannot BELIEVE you, Clark!" and "Do I LOOK like charity to you?" and "Oh my GOD you are such a complete jerk!"  
  
Thankfully, she pauses for breath when Pete arrives.  
  
"What's up, you guys?" he says, taking the seat next to mine. Totally oblivious to the fact that he's just walked in on a very lethal moment and probably just saved me from being stabbed to death with a plastic knife by Chloe, never mind that it couldn't kill me, I'm pretty sure she would have found a way.  
  
Saved by Pete! I fight the urge to hug him.  
  
"Clark just got me a date with Lex. What's up with you, Pete?" Chloe replies in a false cheerful voice.  
  
Pete looks from me to Chloe, realizing too late that he should have just sat somewhere else. "Oh."  
  
"Are you in any part of this sordid plan to better my social life?"  
  
"Nope, totally Clark's idea." I resist the urge to punch him. He shrugs at me. "This is your problem, man. Sorry."  
  
Abandoned by Pete.  
  
"You get what the problem here is, Clark?" I turn back to Chloe, resigning myself to another one of her rants. "I didn't NEED a Prom date. YOU needed me to have a Prom date, so you could enjoy YOUR night, guilt free. I'm not totally stupid, Clark."  
  
Now she doesn't seem that angry about it, more hurt than anything else, and I feel a stab of guilt for it, although I don't really know why she would feel so hurt when I was just doing her a favor.  
  
But the whole favor did some level of damage on her pride and that was pretty grade-A stupid of me.  
  
"I'm sorry," I commiserate.  
  
I don't know if my apology makes her feel better or she's just tired of screaming at me, but her frown melts from her face and she sighs. "Forget it."  
  
"So you're not going with Lex?" Pete asks.  
  
"Actually, I am."  
  
Both of us stare at her. She pokes at her food innocently, carefully avoiding our looks.  
  
"Oh my God, you're going to the Prom with Lex Luthor," Pete murmurs. "Now that's a date to remember."  
  
"Not only that," she says saucily, "He's agreed to grant me an interview."  
  
Pete's fork (or is it mine?) drops.  
  
"And I get to ask ANY question," she adds.  
  
"How did you manage that?" I ask, baffled. I remember the nauseated look on Lex's face when I mentioned the likelihood of an interview yesterday. It did not look like something he was willing to get into.  
  
"Easy. No interview, no date."  
  
Pete looks insanely proud of her. As she dives into the details of yesterday afternoon, and as I hear about Lex waiting outside the house and not wanting the interview and then being emotionally blackmailed for it, another thought strikes me.  
  
Pete, never a fan, seems to rejoice in Lex Luthor's misery.  
  
Whereas I have just realized that there's just one other person who's annoyed with me at this moment.  
  
* * * * * *  
  
"The girl is evil, Clark," Lex informs me, later that afternoon. "A fact you could have made known to me before you got me into this mess."  
  
Knowing it was better to find Lex than to hide and have him assault me in my own home, I set off for the Talon right after school.  
  
Finding his Porsche parked outside, a car that cannot belong to any other soul in Smallville for reasons other than the LEX license plate, I went inside and found him sitting alone and eating a sandwich, dressed in his customary dark clothes. He was reading a newspaper while eating, and from the distance of where I stood at the door and where he sat in the corner, he certainly looked calm enough.  
  
But as soon as I approached him, he said, "You better be fucking thankful, Clark."  
  
Then after a couple of minutes of hearing Lex rant about how he had to suffer to get her to go to the Prom with him, something he would not have had to go through if it wasn't because of me, he finally seemed satisfied at the guilty look on my face and my constant apologies, and continued with his sandwich.  
  
"You really don't have to answer any question you don't want to, Lex," I assure him.  
  
"I don't intend to, Clark. But the girl is more stubborn than a mule. She will devise ways to make me answer. And as pretty as she is, I doubt that her methods would be half as charming."  
  
Although Lex had a pretty accurate portrayal of Chloe's stubbornness, I'm struck dumb at the fact that he just referred to Chloe as 'pretty'.  
  
I stop and find myself thinking about Chloe, in the physical sense, for what seems like the first time in my life. Her eccentric clothes, her big- as-the-world smiles and her huge blue eyes. Nice figure. Not exactly Lex's type, if you remember Victoria Hardwick, he always seems to prefer the lacquered-over type women, more flashy than down to earth.  
  
But well, essentially, she's pretty. I mean, yeah. Chloe's pretty. She is. Cute. No, no. She IS pretty. Chloe is pretty. Not surprising that Lex would think so. I guess.  
  
This could go on all day. I have other things to worry about at the moment other than whether or not Lex finds Chloe pretty. I mean that's not exactly something I need to worry about, right?  
  
"But are you still taking her?" I dare myself to ask.  
  
He chews on his sandwich, regarding me.  
  
"You don't have to."  
  
He sighs and in resignation tells me, "Yes, I'll take Chloe to the Prom, Clark."  
  
I grin at him and he manages a smirk back at me.  
  
"It'll be fun," I promise him. He replies with a big bite of his sandwich and chews slowly and deliberately, probably refusing to comment on how 'fun' the Prom looks like at this moment when he's blackmailed for an interview.  
  
Seeing as no more is to be said on the subject, I get up to leave. "I gotta go, Lex. But thanks. I owe you big time."  
  
I'm about to leave when the sound of Lex's voice stops me. "Clark, I have to ask you something."  
  
"Sure, anything."  
  
"Is Chloe agreeing to go with me solely on the fact that I've agreed to grant her an interview?"  
  
I hate to point out the obvious, but the way I see it there are only two reasons why Chloe would agree: it's either the interview or sheer desperation. Both reasons not very complimentary to Lex's ego, but I don't know why it would matter, anyway. I can't see why Chloe's opinion of him would affect him in any way.  
  
"Well, yes, and she wants to go to the Prom," I tell him. Seeing the somewhat insulted look on his face, I hurriedly add, "And she wouldn't have agreed if it was anyone else asking her."  
  
"Except for you, maybe," he says, wryly.  
  
I look at him questioningly.  
  
"Never mind, Clark," he sighs again. "Never mind." 


	5. The Obstacle

LEX  
  
Throughout my life, either through rumors, fiction, truths or a speculation made in person, people have had their opinions of me.  
  
I am not a pretentious person and this arises from two main reasons: the first being that I don't give a shit about what people think of me. The second would be the fact that sometimes it's better to remain a mystery.  
  
Suffice it to say that having had a bad reputation in Metropolis for various escapades and less credible incidents would result in being held in distrust in the eyes of most of the people here in Smallville. That, and having to suffer in the result of my father's disregard for some of the residents' personal properties, years before my time, true, but people don't forget.  
  
The result being that I could do a mountain of good here, but people will still seek out and revel in the bad. But I do take pride in the fact that I've managed to breed uncertainty in their minds. Am I a Savior or Satan? Who knows? Who cares?  
  
And with this pride, and the little bits of joy I've felt within the confines of this town that I could not achieve with the most expensive drug or the best nightclub in Metropolis, I've found a kind of contentment in Smallville.  
  
Lord of a tiny town, surely a joke, but better that than being a dog under my father's heel in Metropolis.  
  
So I'll admit to having a God complex when it comes to this town. It's the little mannerisms from people: a hesitant smile for some, open stares for others. I take every day trips to the plant, and you can't blame me for feeling Godlike there. Upon my arrival, I start with my tour around the plant with courteous greetings following my path. I would have my plant manager on my side, speaking with open respect and little dishonesty, and I would meet employees suitably intimidated by my presence with a slightly tensed air about their persons and jittery in their quickness to comply with my requests, and nervous at making me upset.  
  
I rarely get upset, contrary to everyone's beliefs. Anger fucks up your mind, diminishes your ability to see straight. But the fear is there, nonetheless.  
  
And I'll conclude again with my second reason: it really is best to stay a mystery.  
  
I never smile at anyone, not if I can help it, and I never do so with my employees. This includes my plant manager, Gabe Sullivan.  
  
But today is different. Today, I find myself smiling at him. Awkwardly.  
  
He looks twice, and gives me a 200-watt grin, not unlike Chloe's smile.  
  
I wonder if he knows that I'm accompanying his daughter to her Prom tomorrow night and am suffering from the results of a sleepless night, aroused by unclean thoughts of her in his kitchen.  
  
As is customary, we stop by my office while my personal assistant hands me my mail and fill me in on the usual appointments and reminders of the day.  
  
I was halfway through an appointment with Mr. Connor at 10 a.m. and an invite to some dinner the following Saturday, when she said, "Don't forget that you're supposed to pick up a corsage tomorrow, sir. The florist in town has the biggest collection for the Prom tomorrow night. I also need to ask, Mr. Luthor, would you be requesting any specific type of flower for the bouquet arrangement you ordered?"  
  
I'm well aware of the curious look this reminder of the day incites from Gabe Sullivan, thanks to my babbling personal assistant.  
  
Acute embarrassment, and a sore temptation to fire my personal assistant, washes over me but I stay calm and reply, "Lilies."  
  
I glance at Gabe who remains expressionless, but I'm guessing that the whole plant will start buzzing about the fact that their boss is attending the Prom as soon as I leave the area.  
  
In fact, they might just keep buzzing about this for years. Add to the fact that I'll be interviewed for this, by my own date, of all things.  
  
My mystery might as well be fed to the fucking sharks.  
  
And just when I think that it's safe to leave my office to resume my check- up with Gabe, my personal assistant, extra helpful today, turns around and inquires, "Oh, and would you like the bouquet delivered directly to Miss Sulivan's house?"  
  
The shell-shocked expression on Gabe's face only confirms what I have guessed: Chloe failed to inform her father on just who exactly was her date for the Prom.  
  
For reasons that I don't care to own, I decide to cut short the routine check-up and hide in my office.  
  
  
  
CHLOE  
  
I guess I didn't have to worry so much over the ongoing debate in my head on whether or not I should tell Dad who my date for the Prom is because apparently some smart-ass at the plant decided to make my decision for me.  
  
I knew it the moment he came home. He usually comes in with a sigh, hangs up his jacket and hat and puts his car keys on the table, calls out, "I'm home!" then we'll go into our daily debate of whether we should cook dinner or order pizza, the latter being the favorite choice.  
  
Today, he came home, called out an urgent, "CHLOE!" then found me in the kitchen and sat down in front of me, jacket and hat still on, a desperate don't-tell-me-it's-true look on his face usually reserved for when Principal Kwan calls him to complain about my 'tabloid' journalism.  
  
And I knew, with a certainty, that he knew, and that I was dead.  
  
"I've heard something, Chloe," he said, gravely.  
  
"Conspiracy at the plant?" I guessed, feebly.  
  
"Oh, it's a conspiracy alright," he said grimly.  
  
I decided not to touch on that one. Better to just lean back and let the bombs start dropping, or whatever.  
  
"I've heard that you're going to the Prom with Lex Luthor. Is that true?" He held his breath.  
  
Since shock disables people from making ordinary speech, I nodded.  
  
The bomb dropped. "Lex Luthor? MY BOSS?!"  
  
"Er." Still disabled from speech.  
  
And with that, Dad went into his Rant. Very much like my own rant, except better, since he has years of experience. My Dad is an amiable and good- natured man, but when he gets really REALLY pissed, he explodes in the manner of a Hiroshima-type bomb, in danger of doing what the meteors couldn't years ago: wiping out Smallville.  
  
I couldn't quite catch what he said but I got the general gist of it. About daughters who date her father's boss and how young I am and inexperienced and how Lex Luthor is a man, with a very unknown past, which is never good, and not only is he a man, he's his BOSS. At some point in time (I think it was after the tenth time that he reminded me that Lex was his boss), he finally grew tired.  
  
"Chloe," Dad shook his head and sighed loudly. "Why, Chloe? Of all the boys in Smallville, what possessed you to choose my boss?"  
  
Well, he was the only one who asked, but I wasn't going to tell Dad that.  
  
"Yes, BUT," I said.  
  
"This better be a good 'but'."  
  
"It's not what you think. I didn't have a date and he just agreed to escort me! It's nothing like- like- THAT. It's just, um…" Dad gave me the suspicious eye, and I squirmed like a person convicted for murder, having had very disturbing thoughts of Lex Luthor himself last night involving whipped cream in this very kitchen. "It was, er, Clark's idea."  
  
And so, my Dad went off into a new rant, this time involving unethical farm boys, and although I wasn't totally in the clear, his anger had been misdirected long enough for me to take a deep breath, which is all good. Plus, Dad would never get angry with Clark to his face. He loves Clark.  
  
However, in these circumstances, his only daughter, the apple of his eye, turned into a victim in this wrongdoing and since Lex Luthor is his boss, Clark got the blame. Oh, well.  
  
The rant went right through our pizza until I decided that sneaking out of the house for some solitary peace and lots of caffeine and to keep out of Dad's hair was definitely the best plan, and so I left. Quickly.  
  
Where does one go for peace and solitary now? Ironically enough, the one place where you usually couldn't find any form of peace or good service on a Friday night, before the Talon graced itself with its reformed presence: the Beanery.  
  
The Beanery was empty, and after ordering a mochaccino, I took a seat, and prepared myself for some quality solitude and peace of mind, while thinking up questions to ask the great Lex Luthor, my Prom date, tomorrow night.  
  
Not ten minutes later, the great Lex Luthor himself, my Prom date, slides into the seat opposite mine and with that swift movement, destroys all hopes for quality solitude.  
  
And seeing how good he's looking in that black jacket, my peace of mind too. 


	6. The Night Before The Prom

LEX  
  
Oh I'm feeling pretty fucking Godlike now.  
  
Being humiliated is really the most effective way to dent an ego, even one as well established as mine. And how do I handle this humiliation? Quiet dignity has always been the wise choice, but when I'm hiding in the office all day, I'm sure people would fail to notice any form of dignity. And now, in the evening with the thoughts of the day in my mind and a promise to fire my personal assistant (I'm convinced she let slip 'Miss Sullivan' on purpose), I'm driving like a mad demon in one of my faster cars. Certainly no one would notice my quiet dignity in here either, zooming by before pedestrians could even see the LEX print on the license plate.  
  
Am I running away from my own shame? Well, there's nothing to be ashamed about. I'm doing this as a favor to my best friend, who had once saved me from a watery death, if anyone cared to remember. Chloe is, albeit nosy, a pretty and intelligent girl, and there's nothing shameful about that either. And I have every intention to carry out this favor in the most honorable of methods. Never mind the fantasy in her kitchen.  
  
But of course, people don't see that. All they see is that their boss, Lex Luthor, is taking a young girl to her Prom. And to make it all the more controversial, it's his plant manager's daughter. What a joke.  
  
I swear to God, Clark better be fucking thankful.  
  
I drive past the residential zone of Smallville in a black Ferrari blur, loud music in the form of angst-ridden bands banging against my windows, waking up the dead and anyone who's sleeping. This is my usual way of driving, I even remember Clark chiding me on this once, but it's a matter of breathing to me. Although right now I'll have to admit that I'm driving this way not for the simple matter of mechanics, but more like I'm trying to warp my humiliation to another world where I don't exist.  
  
I'm also half-inclined to find suitable candidates for road kill, preference given to those who closely resemble my personal assistant.  
  
When I reach the commercial area of Smallville (and I use this term loosely), I slow down at the sight of the Talon.  
  
Driving by at a more decent speed, I can see Clark (the Proprietor of my humiliation) and Lana (the Cause of my Proprietor's scheme for my humiliation) by the counter laughing. A crowd of other teenagers mill about the area, all happy and excited. Of course. The Prom's tomorrow night.  
  
Now I wonder why it was that I took a drive instead of locking myself up in my room to drown my sorrows away with the assistance of a very helpful man named Jack Daniels.  
  
I'm unsure as to how it is that I end up at The Beanery instead of going straight home to start drowning away. My mind states two reasons: a desire for peace and quiet, and a desire for The Beanery's cappuccino (admittedly Lana's hard work makes her a good assistant manager but good effort does not good coffee make, and Lana makes the worst).  
  
However, I see another incentive as to why I should go in.  
  
There's only one other person that I'm familiar with in The Beanery tonight, looking down at the table in front of her forlornly. My date. The Reason for my humiliation.  
  
After ordering a cappuccino, I glance at her again. She's still staring at the table and, at the state she's in, probably wouldn't notice me if I shoved my face in front of her eyes.  
  
Daydreaming perhaps about well-built six foot three farm boys with floppy black hair and blue eyes who lifts hay by day and saves people by night.  
  
You'd think that since I was taking her to the damn Prom that she'd show more appreciation and daydream about me instead.  
  
I've found another suitable candidate for road kill.  
  
I join her without any good reason why.  
  
Her eyes are still glazed over when I slide into the seat in front of her. It's when she blinks that I'm satisfied that she registers me, somewhere in that controversy driven mind of hers.  
  
I ask, "Can I join you?"  
  
She blinks again and stammers, "Sure."  
  
I take a sip of my coffee while observing her. She's looking ragged, maybe even more than myself. The blank and dazed look she has indicates that the customary dryness of her personality doesn't seem to be present tonight, and I wonder if I'll miss it.  
  
Gabe must have given her hell. I'm tempted to ask her if this will result in the cancellation of our upcoming date tomorrow night, but for reasons that I'm unsure of, I decide not to.  
  
Then, having fully rediscovered herself and the fact that it's her life purpose to be a smart ass, she says to me, "What brings you to this side of Smallville? Checking out other coffee shop competitors or looking for other damsels in distress to bring to the Prom?"  
  
Knowing how monosyllabic answers tend to piss her off (knowledge I've procured from being in the company of too many reporters vying for more information on the life of a Luthor), I reply, "Coffee."  
  
She looks distinctly annoyed, I feel fairly pleased.  
  
"What brings you to the Beanery?" I ask her.  
  
"Coffee," she answers sardonically.  
  
I decide to ignore that. "They do serve good coffee here, don't they?"  
  
"As opposed to the meteorite spiked beverages they serve at The Talon?"  
  
"Oh, it's not just the beverages," I assure her.  
  
"Then I guess interviewing you will be much more fun than I expected."  
  
"And here I flatter myself that it would be a roll in the hay without the meteorite references." She doesn't reply. "Or does that bring forth images of a farm boy in a barn?"  
  
She glares at me in a way that indicates that she's planning to kill me with the sheer power of her murderous thoughts as a weapon.  
  
I take a leisurely sip of my cappuccino.  
  
"No idea what you're talking about," she declares airily.  
  
"Right."  
  
She conveniently changes the subject. "Actually Lex, maybe it's a good thing that you're here." Maybe? "Did you see my father today?"  
  
"I usually meet him most days."  
  
"Did you mention the Prom to him? OR…" her eyes widen to a size I never thought possible. "Did he mention the Prom to you?" Then with a ceremoniously loud gasp, she sucks in a breath and holds it.  
  
It makes me wonder if she's been taking any form of drugs, other than caffeine.  
  
I assure her, "No. My assistant mentioned it to him. In circumstances I would have preferred to avoid."  
  
She doesn't seem to register my last words, having omitted a sigh of relief at the mention of my assistant. "There's a good excuse to fire a person if ever I heard one."  
  
"I am. On Monday."  
  
She laughs loudly and appreciatively at this until she notices the grim silence on my part and stops abruptly.  
  
We lapse into a silence, where on my side of the yellow Formica, I lean back in my seat and watch her. On her side, I cannot pretend to know. Her face is unreadable, and her eyes have wandered back down to the surface of the table.  
  
Tonight is not the first time that I've seen Chloe in this position. Sometimes you can find her drifting off like this in the middle of a crowded café, her concentration strong enough to ignore the din around her. It makes you wonder what she's thinks so hard about.  
  
What is it about this girl? Sometimes it seems like she could burn out the world with her energy. Other times, when you catch her naked like this, you feel this overwhelming urge to hug her, murmur safe words in her hair, and protect her from the world.  
  
Or maybe it's better to just change the subject.  
  
Unfortunately, making small talk is not one of my better talents.  
  
"So," I start. "How's the…"  
  
"…Torch doing?" she finishes for me, an amused look on her face. "Really, Lex, is there no other way for you to start a conversation with me?"  
  
Now I wonder how it was that I would want to protect this girl from anything when I would, at this moment, willingly push her into shark- infested waters.  
  
"But since you asked," she continues. "The Torch is doing fine. Might just do better after our interview tomorrow."  
  
"It's not an interview," I remind her placidly. "It's a DATE."  
  
"Details," she says with a wave of her hand. I'm prepared to shoot her down with a biting retort to silence her to the end of her days, when she looks up and flashes a smile at me.  
  
It's the average Chloe smile, full of white teeth and quirky lips, with a dash of slyness. But strangely making me feel a bit... off. Momentarily.  
  
But in that moment, a thousand thoughts course my brain. My God, she has a great smile. She could win over the toughest men with a flash of that smile.  
  
Thankfully the moment leaves and returns my normal sanity back into my willing hands.  
  
Thinking erratic thoughts of a girl's smile. That's a joke.  
  
  
  
CHLOE  
  
I was sitting alone in the Beanery, on the pretext of working on my interview with Lex Luthor tomorrow but in actuality mastering the art of staring a hole into the table in front of me, when the man himself slides into the chair opposite mine.  
  
And my nerves, already shot, spiraled into the sky.  
  
The man who is the subject of my new favorite fantasy involving very creative scenes in my kitchen manages to find me when I don't want him to be around.  
  
To make the situation oh so much worse, he's managed to find me in my worst state of blanking out. Finger twirling around hair, pen in my mouth, eyes dry from not blinking in the past hour (it feels like), lost in no particular thought except for those of a bald rich wonder and how good he looks in a suit, when the subject himself materialized out of nowhere, seemingly, without an invitation, and smirks at me.  
  
Obviously my mind came back before long (thank God for small favors), and the normal banter ensued. Actually it's more of a competition than banter. The one who manages to make the other feel the smallest wins the game.  
  
But I can't ignore the fact that he is looking extra good in that jacket.  
  
He's silent at the moment and I have no idea why. He's also giving me that serious look. The look I can only define as, for lack of a better term, the Lex Luthor Serious Look. Goes through your eyes and deep into your brain where it pokes around and studies you without your permission (how I imagine his scientists at the plant treat lab rats). It has an unsettling effect on me.  
  
That, and how I can't get past the fact that he looks too damn good tonight.  
  
And now I find myself wondering if staring at yellow Formica can be damaging to the brain and can induce the person to have imaginary visions of yummy bald men.  
  
Maybe it's best to just change the subject.  
  
Unfortunately, I suck at small talk.  
  
"So," I say loudly, hoping to jumpstart him into movement. It doesn't. "Read any good books lately?"  
  
An eyebrow rises. Success! "Plenty."  
  
"100 Best Places To Bury Annoying Reporters?"  
  
He gives me a weary look. "Can we save the interview for tomorrow?"  
  
God. Can't even ask the guy what kind of books he reads.  
  
What with my horrendous inexperience with men, I'm far from being the perfect person to tell Lex Luthor what he needs. But if he asked, I'd tell him to ditch the mysterious act and trade it for some livelihood.  
  
I'm sorely tempted to tell him just so, horrendous inexperience or no horrendous inexperience, when he says, "What about you?"  
  
"What about me?"  
  
"Good books?"  
  
Wow. Lex Luthor just asked me if I've read any good books. I'm having inane conversation with Lex Luthor. Wow.  
  
"Er…" I try to remember. "Not lately. What with the Prom Haze and all." The 'Prom Haze' reference sparks a questioning look in his eyes. "You know. The Prom Haze." Still nonplussed. My fault, sometimes I forget that my theories are not published material and are just the work of an insane girl with too much time on her hands. I explain, "The temporary fog that gets teenagers all giggly and jittery and unable to concentrate on anything else but the Prom and the preparations leading to the said Prom."  
  
"Here I thought you'd be oblivious to things like that."  
  
For some reason, I feel absurdly pleased to know that he doesn't see me conforming to normal teenage behavior, however untrue it is. "Well since I've found myself a handsome Prom date, I thought why not? So I just dove right in."  
  
He smirks, probably at the handsome Prom date remark. You really can't underestimate an ego the size of his. Just look at his license plates.  
  
"You know, you can call me a beautiful Prom date anytime now," I suggest.  
  
He smiles. I feel pleased again. I mean it is a rare thing to see him smile.  
  
And I can't help thinking about how well the smile suits him.  
  
He tells me, "I thought I'd save it for tomorrow."  
  
"I'd rather have my ego fix now, thanks all the same."  
  
"We can't all get what we want."  
  
"Oh, alright," I grumble.  
  
Then feeling an odd kind of contentment at the lightness of the situation and the fact that he has, somehow, cheered me up, despite his foreboding, egotistical, crush-your-soul and dry personality, I flash a smile at him.  
  
Then, unexpectedly, or more like a slap in the face, or an amazing head rush, he says, "You're beautiful, Chloe." 


	7. The Dreaded Questions

CLARK  
  
I woke up to a beautiful day today, but there's no time to linger on that.  
  
It's Saturday morning, the Prom is in 9 hours and counting, and besides the shower, I haven't eaten breakfast or started on my chores. And I still have to buy a corsage for Lana (which I think will take about an hour of very hard concentration) and a bouquet of flowers. And I have to pick up my tux.  
  
I gotta admit that I was a bit skeptical about the bouquet of flowers, but Pete, my comrade for today's Prom preparations, was insistent. He said that if we're going to impress our ladies, then flowers are the way to go. Although a part of me will always be willing to make a good impression on Lana (I know being a super alien would be one way but… let's not), I reasoned to Pete that Lana and I are only friends. Why should I buy her a bouquet when my affection for her will never (it looks like) be reciprocated? Pete told me to stop being a dumb ass.  
  
Still, I can picture the happy look on Lana's face when I surprise her with a bouquet of… tulips? Okay, maybe I should just go there and pick some pretty ones.  
  
I hear Mom's voice from downstairs, calling me to come down for breakfast.  
  
I take a really quick shower first (one task down, five to go). Bless my powers.  
  
When I zoom (literally) down to the kitchen, Dad has just taken a seat at the table. I have to pause and smile at the sight of both of them, sitting together, chatting idly. A perfect picturesque moment of two people devoted to each other and very much in love, after years of marriage. My parents.  
  
Of course, they're not my biological parents, but they're the only kind I'll ever know.  
  
Feeling extremely lucky and exuberant (great parents, great friends, great Prom date, great luck with Whitney going off to Metropolis, great life) I greet my parents with a hearty, "Good morning!" and drop a kiss on my Mom's cheek.  
  
"Someone's happy this morning," Mom observes.  
  
"And rushing," I add. "I have a lot to do today."  
  
"Ah. Prom preparations." Dad gets a nostalgic look in his eyes. "But what's to prepare for?"  
  
"Well," I start, cutting off a big piece of my pancake and shoving it in my mouth. "Well," I repeat.  
  
"Swallow then talk," Mom advises.  
  
I swallow. "Well, I'm meeting up with Pete. We have to buy corsages and flower bouquets for our respective dates, then pick up my tux. Plus, I gotta do my chores first."  
  
"Which would take two seconds," Dad says.  
  
"Yeah but, I have a feeling I'll be stuck on the bouquet and corsage. I'm really bad at these things."  
  
"It's the thought that counts, Clark," Mom assures me. "I'm sure Chloe wouldn't mind anything that you buy her."  
  
I pause at Mom's words. Did she just say Chloe?  
  
"It's a good thing that Chloe didn't have a date, then you'd have to go alone!" Mom continues while I rack my brains trying to remember if I told them I was taking Lana, not Chloe. "And I know there's nothing wrong with going alone, but when you're 16 and going to the Prom, it's pretty much the end of the world…"  
  
"Mom," I interrupt. "I'm not taking Chloe."  
  
Heavy pause.  
  
"You're not?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Well, who are you taking, son?" Dad asks.  
  
Seeing that it's no cause for concern (yeah, right), I make my best attempt at shrugging nonchalantly and say, "Lana."  
  
Very heavy pause.  
  
"Clark," Mom starts.  
  
"Son," Dad starts.  
  
"Guys," I cut in. "It's okay. Really. Whitney's gone to Metropolis to visit his sick aunt, so Lana didn't have a date." They glance at each other. "We're going as FRIENDS," I insist. They look at me doubtfully.  
  
Luckily Mom, always the first to side with me, smiles at me and says, "If you say so, Clark."  
  
I decide to avoid Dad's reproachful look.  
  
"So who's Chloe going with?"  
  
Now I wish I could avoid both of them.  
  
  
  
CHLOE  
  
Oversleeping was not one of my better ideas.  
  
Groggily, I crack open an eye and cringe at the overexposure of light raping my pupil and forcing its way to the back of my skull where it fries my brain.  
  
Sleeping late was not a good idea either. One could hardly blame me for that, though.  
  
Using all the strength of my physical and mental being, I crawl out of bed and force my legs to move in the direction of the bathroom, barely registering a, "Good afternoon, sweetie. Sleep late?" from my Dad on the way before splashing my face with very cold water.  
  
It's not until after the cold shower, aspirin and breakfast (brunch) that I begin to feel human again. And in this human form, I go through my checklist for the day, all of which involving the accomplishment of primping, curling, and dressing my way into a svelte Prom doll in five hours and counting- an impossible feat, I know, but I'll die trying.  
  
I really, really, really should not have slept late.  
  
Which is totally and completely Lex Luthor's fault, I'll have you know.  
  
And, before finally drifting off at 4 a.m., what was my conclusion to the Lex Luthor tossing and turning façade? I was overreacting. From experience, let me assure you that this is not an improbable case, being born a natural born drama queen.  
  
He said I was beautiful because I told him to call me beautiful. That's all. What else is there to read into that?  
  
And now, in the light of day, the clock ticking and no sign of a kindly mutant with time stopping powers to help me, with other things to worry about than reading too much into three words, I wonder how my mind ever entertained the idea of Lex.  
  
It's funny. Ridiculous. Ha, ha.  
  
Today I'm faced with REAL problems. Trivial, sure, but real.  
  
Like, how am I gonna do my hair, my nails, get the straps of my shoe fixed, shower, put on make-up and prepare questions for the interview with my date in the space of five hours.  
  
Oversleeping was really a bad idea. Being in a Lex Haze was not helpful either.  
  
The Clark Haze never stopped me from getting any sleep.  
  
  
  
LEX  
  
I said she was beautiful because she told me to call her beautiful. That's all. That's it. No other reason.  
  
Of course, the fact that this has been repeated in my brain for the millionth time since last night, suggests something else.  
  
The probability that maybe the annoying blonde teenager has gotten under my skin. And not only has she gotten under my skin, she's swimming and stomping around in it, making me itch.  
  
Again, I find myself on the road, and again, I find myself contemplating the humiliation of the previous day. Except this time, this was not the work of a sixteen- year old farm boy with the desire of making all of his friends as happy as he is, or an ignorant personal assistant going through my appointments of the day. This, sad to say, came from my own big mouth.  
  
What on earth possessed me to call her beautiful?  
  
Perhaps a result from the odd myriad of feelings that seems to strike me when I'm in her presence. I seem to be straddling a very fine line between intense annoyance and an intense crush.  
  
No. Not a crush. I've never had a crush before and I don't intend to start on a smart-mouthed teenager.  
  
Certainly there have been a few non-chivalrous ideas at the back of my mind to get to know her better, but nothing I've had any actual inclination to act upon, if only because it's borderline legal, and the fact that she's Clark's friend.  
  
Until Clark presented an offer to me.  
  
No. Not an offer. A favor. Don't get your mind twisted over that.  
  
She TOLD me to call her beautiful.  
  
  
  
CLARK  
  
The name 'Lex' has been hanging in the air for the past hour, it feels like. And in that hour, Mom and Dad have been looking at me with mouths gaping open, eyes wide as saucers and random choking.  
  
Now, my parents know that I'm good friends with Lex, and even though I'm constantly pushing them to like him and see the good that I see in him, I know that they (especially Dad) will always distrust him.  
  
And if they find out that I'm the one who got my poor innocent friend Chloe a date with the evil Lex Luthor himself? Most likely I'll have to climb out of my window to go to the Prom.  
  
I hate lying to my parents, but I think dodging a few questions properly might save the day. The way I see it, I only have to avoid three crucial questions.  
  
The first one would be why Lex is taking her. The second would be if they are dating, and my negative answer would then lead to the third: how did Lex come to ask her.  
  
Hopefully, I'll avoid this altogether and just act like the innocent son.  
  
Mom swallows hard and says, "Wow."  
  
Unfortunately, Dad finds his voice too. "Let me get this straight," Dad says. "Lex LUTHOR asked Chloe to the Prom?" I nod. Then Dreaded Question No. 1 comes out, "Why?"  
  
I decide that this is the best time to take a big bite of my pancake.  
  
"Not that he shouldn't," Mom rushes in, kindly. "Chloe is a beautiful and intelligent girl…"  
  
"Who is much too young and inexperienced for a man like him," Dad interrupts.  
  
"Well, maybe it's not like that…" Mom starts.  
  
Dad continues, "Well, it's an odd gesture, Martha. Taking a girl to her Prom."  
  
"I can't imagine... I mean, I never realized that Chloe and Lex were, well, an item," Mom says.  
  
Dreaded Question No. 2: "Are they?" Dad pushes. "Swallow, son."  
  
I do, reluctantly. "No, they're not. Chloe didn't have a date so Lex asked her." Dad has that look of distrust on his face. I add, for Lex's benefit, "It's actually a kind gesture, Dad."  
  
"Sounds more like charity," Dad retorts. It's funny how everyone sees it that way except me. And then, finally, Dreaded Question No. 3: "How did this come about, son?"  
  
I look up and face my parents, ready to hand out the lie with an impressive steady wide-eyed gaze and maybe a smile to smooth things over.  
  
Unfortunately guilt grabs my face back down and makes me take another big bite of my breakfast. "Well, Lex, you know, he just, you know, offered," I mumble through a mouthful of pancake.  
  
Dad snorts. Out of the corner of my eye, Mom's looking suspicious, but doesn't say anything.  
  
Which doesn't matter. I'm home free! For now, anyway.  
  
  
  
* * * * * *  
  
Thank you thank you thank you for the reviews! 


	8. The Lily and The Rose

Author's Note: Lex is 21, in this story anyway, but I'm pretty sure he's 21 in the show itself. Chloe is 16, my choice. I don't know if that's borderline legal or absolutely illegal but well, never mind. Thanks for pointing it out though :)  
  
* * * * *  
  
LEX  
  
People might think that I've gone crazy.  
  
I have to admit that I can't blame them, particularly at this moment when I have doubts of my own sanity. Having sat in this chair for the past hour, staring hard at a harmless bouquet of lilies, unmoving before me like a small flash of dazzling and lively white in the center of a big and unfriendly mahogany room, it doesn't leave much space for common sense.  
  
Perfect example being one of my nosier housekeepers, passing this room several times in the past hour that I have sat here unmoving, casting discreet glances my way to determine if the figure in a chair is the stiff dead body of her boss or just a stiff boss. I tell her to leave me alone which she answers with a nod, the heavy clomps of her shoes echoing down the corridor behind her.  
  
And I am left again to my own defenses. Lex Luthor vs. the lilies.  
  
Beautiful lilies, my mind corrects. I ease my head to the left and right, relieving the ache that's threatening to permanently reside in my neck. Sometimes I can get a bit too obsessive, to the point where my body parts are only a necessity for me to converse to people with, not something that I should actually take care of. Even in the matter of staring at a bouquet of flowers.  
  
I lean forward and tentatively take a sniff. The fragrance is, predictably, sweet. I rub a petal against my skin and savor the cool softness against my warm cheek.  
  
In truth, despite what people might see, I have only just noticed the flowers. From the moment that I sat down here with these flowers to now, there were no lilies in my existence. Just a white blur that my gaze stayed transfixed on while my mind wandered elsewhere.  
  
Nevertheless, Chloe would love to take a picture of this. Certainly the photograph would sell a fortune, considering that it's a well-known fact that such whimsical flower sniffing activities as these is not a common practice in the vicious Luthor environment, where we're fed poison for breakfast to see if we have the mental capacity to rearrange our blood molecules back to normal so we could be alive for the poison at dinner.  
  
Actually, a whole truckload of scenarios comes to mind at the thought of Chloe's presence.  
  
Allow me to put aside the R rated scenarios, for now.  
  
She would be teasing me or making innocent comments dripping with sarcasm or simply, try very hard to drive me out of my mind.  
  
She would wear clothes that would not be out of place in a trendier city, but called outlandish in a town like Smallville where the choices of cardigans as modeled by Lana Lang would be considered the highest point in fashion. Either that, or the garish red and yellow jackets that the football jocks insist on wearing come rain or shine.  
  
Her hair would be messy and flip outwards in a carefully careless way. Her lips would be curved in a smile. Her eyes would be big and blue with life.  
  
She would annoy me and at the same time, invigorate me.  
  
And as per the conclusion of my secluded hour in a chair with a bouquet of lilies for company, she could just sit down in front of me and it would content me to just hear her breathe.  
  
These are disturbing thoughts.  
  
But it's a certainty in my mind as sure as it feels like a bullet to my brain.  
  
And right now, sniffing these flowers because I find them as fragrant as I find Chloe refreshing, it puts another latch to my certainty, further proving a point that I have carefully chosen to disregard.  
  
I have feelings for the maddening reporter who's out to ruin my reputation in an interview in an attempt to salvage her own.  
  
And I'm left, irrevocably and annoyingly, clueless as to what I should do about it.  
  
  
  
CLARK  
  
I have a magnificent picture in front of me.  
  
It's the town of Smallville in a portrait, framed by the barn walls, and I don't think that the greatest artist in the world could capture this feeling of peace and beauty.  
  
Usually, peace worries me. It seems like every time I feel absolute contentment, something comes along and ruin it. Genetically impaired people, tragedies, crisis situations, waiting for me to save the day and save a life while I abandon my friends and family.  
  
It just goes to show really, all towns have their dark secrets. Maybe not all of them are mutants affected by meteorite fragments, but all generally bad.  
  
But today, I relish the peace.  
  
Stretched out on my couch, idly fingering a yellow rose from the bouquet I bought for Lana, an idyllic view in front of me, I have this empowering positive feeling that nothing can go wrong, not tonight.  
  
Because tonight, I'm going to the Prom with the most beautiful girl in Smallville, come mutant, tornado or rain.  
  
Lana Lang. I can't pinpoint exactly when it was that I started liking her, but once I did there was no hope for me to stop. Befriending her seemed to make it stronger, because instead of an inane and bubbly airhead (Chloe's always saying that these are the three main characteristics a person must have to qualify as a cheerleader), I found a sensitive, caring and wonderful girl. And she has pain, kind of like mine, and just needed a hand to hold to get over her pain.  
  
Which doesn't make her an inane or bubbly airhead, it makes her human.  
  
And if her friends had enough faith in her, then she would have found her strength a long time ago, and wouldn't have needed me to prod her into blossoming.  
  
Either way, I'm crazy about her. I didn't need the meteorite necklace to make me weak when I'm near her, her smile could do the job.  
  
And I'm going to the Prom, tonight, with her.  
  
I am definitely the luckiest guy in the world.  
  
On the verge of drifting off to a fantasy of her in my arms, a voice jolts me back down to earth, "Clark?"  
  
It also jolts me off the couch onto my face but thankfully not on the roses.  
  
But not thankfully, the voice belongs to Lana.  
  
"Clark!" She rushes to my side and I get up quickly, brushing myself off, and trying to act like that never happened, that I didn't just fall on my face in front of the girl of my dreams. "Are you okay?"  
  
"I'm fine!" My ego will be suffering for years though. "You just surprised me that's all."  
  
She smiles impishly. "Sorry."  
  
"No problem," I reply, and then not knowing what to do and not wanting to sit in case I fall down again, I put my hands in my pockets and smile at her. "What's up?"  
  
What is it about Lana in this barn? The sun rays reflect off her dark hair, and shines on her face, and she looks so beautiful that I wish I could take a picture of her, to frame and keep me company during my hours of solitude up here.  
  
"I need to talk to you," she says, staring up at me. As I look back at her expectantly, she takes her eyes off my face and starts walking slowly away from me.  
  
Puzzling. "Lana?"  
  
"It's about tonight."  
  
"What about tonight?"  
  
"It's just," she falters, closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.  
  
A feeling of impending doom washes over me.  
  
I try to keep the urgency from my voice. "What is it, Lana?"  
  
"Whitney's back from Metropolis," she says, trying in vain to sound upbeat, but the look in her face betrays her. "He came back to surprise me."  
  
I nod and keep my face expressionless. It must be a super alien talent, being able to do this when it feels like a thousand knives are stabbing me.  
  
"I'm sorry, Clark," she says. "I have to go to the Prom with him tonight." 


	9. The Delay

CHLOE  
  
I was seriously tempted to do the whole Prom date scene.  
  
You know, handsome Prom date arrives then waits downstairs with your parents, all the while keeping an eye on the top of the stairs, and there I will emerge, ravishingly gorgeous, and with the background music of the said parents murmuring about how beautiful I look, I begin my descent down the stairs, all the while keeping my eyes locked with my Prom date, and ironically enough never falling down.  
  
Rationality came flying down soon after that, reminding me that this will never happen for two very good reasons: the first is that there is no way I'll be able to walk down those steps in these heels without keeping my gaze strapped firmly on my feet and where it's heading. The second is the fact that my date is not an average high school boy but my Dad's boss, and there is no way in hell that I'm leaving both of them alone. It would make for an extremely awkward situation.  
  
So fifteen minutes before schedule, I tottered carefully downstairs and joined my father in the living room, where he paced anxiously.  
  
And Dad, who was still managing to blame the whole thing on Clark, got misty-eyed at the sight of me and I got my first ego boost of the evening. That is, before he almost dislodged the lilies from my carefully hair- sprayed and damn expensive French twist by hugging me fiercely.  
  
"Dad…" I whined, trying to keep my hair intact.  
  
"Chloe, you look stunning," he said, smiling broadly. "Your date is a very lucky boy..." and then he stopped, remembering all too clearly that my date is not at all a boy and instead, a man, and when I come to think about it, not all that lucky either.  
  
And so he realized that I wouldn't be showing the five hard-working hour display of totally manmade beauty to a fellow high school miscreant, but rather, his miscreant boss.  
  
Putting aside his camera with a sigh (obviously an evening he won't be willing to remember), he asked sullenly, "What time is Mr. Luthor picking you up?" Probably calling him Mr. Luthor in an attempt to make me feel worse. It worked.  
  
"He should be here in fifteen minutes," I informed him, and that would be the last thing I say in the next fifteen minutes.  
  
I hoped beyond hope that Lex would get here on time. Uncomfortable silences are the worse kind of torment any self-respecting human could endure.  
  
  
  
LEX  
  
Half an hour before I leave to collect my designated Prom date/interview and I'm at war with my tie.  
  
Which just adds another piece of evidence to the list of reasons as to why life is so damn ironic. The one thing that I had the least concern over would be the one thing that will serve to irritate me tonight.  
  
I yank it off, take several calming breaths, and try again.  
  
Considering that I've been wearing ties for as far as I can remember and have since qualified as an expert in the art of grooming, I have to question myself as to why, at the ripe old age of 21, it would be so difficult now.  
  
The answer only proves to annoy me further: my palms are sweaty.  
  
For a man who is considered by his associates and acquaintances alike as inhuman, this is an unknown terrain that I have wandered into.  
  
I take off the tie and choose one of a less slippery material than silk. Practicality will have to do tonight.  
  
My sane mind reminds me that practicality would be canceling this date.  
  
But I don't quit. Come rain, shine or reputation, I'm not a quitter.  
  
A good fifteen minutes wasted, and finally satisfied with my tie, I shrug on my jacket and give myself a final once-over in the full-length mirror in front of me.  
  
My image smirks at my effort. Going through pains to get ready for a date.  
  
I re-assert myself. This is how I prepare for all my dates. Chloe is no different.  
  
Or maybe, she is, because I don't remember a 16-year old girl in my history with the opposite sex, even when I was 16 years old myself. And there is no meteorite formula in the world that can jumpstart her five years ahead of her age to make her 21, and sufficient enough in age for my world to accept her. And vice versa.  
  
I might not give a shit about what people think about me, but I have a reputation to uphold, a plant to run, and a father to overtake. I don't need another black spot on my reputation to make these future plans go awry.  
  
Were it for my reputation alone, I wouldn't have had time for her anyway.  
  
Hold on to that logic, Luthor.  
  
However, the physical being does not operate on logic, and my palms are still sweating in result of this. Not to mention the feeling of dread at the question that maybe my caution has come too late.  
  
  
  
CHLOE  
  
The silence is killing me.  
  
My father has been sitting on the couch opposite me in silence, total and absolute silence, for the past unwavering fifteen minutes, disrupted every 20 seconds by the sound of my dress rustling as I bring my wrist up to my eyes to check my watch.  
  
Fifteen minutes of gut-wrenching silence and I'm starting to think that the only way I'll be able to release myself from this torture is by slitting my wrists and mercifully dying.  
  
And to make it worse, the silence has made it insufferably impossible for me to not think about Lex Luthor.  
  
Yes, I know I'm stuck with the guy for one whole evening where chances of avoiding him would be a God sent miracle, but I need to clear my mind now. Before I go through this evening's festivities fogged with the thought of how good he looks in a suit (and I'm pretty sure he'll look good) and not being able to concentrate on the task at hand: the interview.  
  
The reason I agreed to all of this.  
  
Yes, Chloe Sullivan, that IS the reason.  
  
What I don't need now is to be plagued with the single repetitive sentence doing the tango in my brain: You're beautiful Chloe. You're beautiful Chloe. You're…  
  
My cell phone rings and I hold onto it for dead life, or maybe dear sanity.  
  
It's Lex.  
  
  
  
LEX  
  
After last minute scrutinizing in the mirror and managing a degree of success in tucking away all irrepressible thoughts of Chloe into a deep and dark corner of my mind, I walk down my driveway to my car. Loose in my hands are a bouquet of lilies and a corsage, swinging by my side, a hard attempt at being casual.  
  
However I stop short at the sight of my limousine pulling up behind my Jaguar. The same limousine I had sent to the Kent farm half an hour ago.  
  
My driver explained that the tall boy sent him back.  
  
And through my head came a couple of likely scenarios, until I manage to set apart the most reasonable.  
  
Since it's highly improbable that Clark would decide that his father's beaten truck would be sufficient enough in its dusty seats for Lana's pristine ass and sufficient enough in transport to coach the Homecoming Queen to the Prom, I hazard another guess.  
  
A call to the Kent farm, and a talk with Martha Kent confirmed what I suspected: the inevitable Prom Queen has her witless and matching Prom King back in her arms and has screwed my best friend over.  
  
At which point I cannot help but feel contempt for Lana.  
  
Deciding that Chloe would have to wait, albeit the certainty that she would not be happy about it, I make a detour to the Kent farm, calling Chloe on the way to tell her I'll be late.  
  
  
  
CHLOE  
  
"How's my beautiful Prom date?" says the dry tone of voice, coming from an equally dry man who has no idea of what pains I have had to go through to look this good and to be ready at this time so he would have a both striking and prompt Prom date.  
  
The lash I have ready for him is at the tip of my tongue. Remembering my father however, I meekly make my way to the kitchen.  
  
In the confines of my kitchen, "Your beautiful Prom date is sweating in her beautiful dress waiting. Where the hell are you?"  
  
"I apologize."  
  
Convenient. "Convenient."  
  
"I'm going to be a bit late, Chloe."  
  
I make a noise that resembles a dying bird. "Why?"  
  
Silence on the other line greets my question before he finally comes up with a dissatisfying, "I'm not sure."  
  
I make the noise again.  
  
"I'm sorry," he repeats.  
  
"Good."  
  
"Just wait for me." With that remark the romantically foolish Chloe (the one who has watched When Harry Met Sally until the script has been imprinted on my brain) comes out bursting with song at the memory of Daniel Day-Lewis telling Madeleine Stowe to stay alive, because he'll find her, with fierce and angst-ridden passion. Never mind that the person who has said my little romantic line said it with the sincerity of a dead fish.  
  
I feel, unfortunately, breathless. Not the condition you want to be in during a crucial verbal banter moment. I look for sarcasm, come up empty- handed, and decide to stay with annoyed. "I'm a very, very impatient girl. How long?"  
  
"I'm not sure."  
  
The romantically foolish Chloe punctures like a balloon and is quickly replaced with normal and paranoid Chloe. "Are you chickening out on me?" I ask suspiciously.  
  
There's a sound on the other line. It sounds like someone's chuckling, but that can't be possible, because Lex Luthor doesn't chuckle. "I don't do chickening out."  
  
Huh. "Right."  
  
"Look, don't get your panties in a twist, Chloe. Be patient. I'll be there."  
  
I gasp, romantically foolish, normal and paranoid, everything gone and replaced with the instinct to kill. The NERVE. "Listen, buster, if you think for one second that you've got ANY effect on my underwear then you've got another think coming and soooo fast."  
  
"I'll see you later," he says ignoring me, and cuts off my incoming and exceedingly disastrous rant by hanging up.  
  
I stare indignantly at the phone in my hand, seriously tempted to call the bastard back when I realize that my father is in the kitchen with me, and, in all probability, heard the underwear comment.  
  
"So he'll be a little late," Dad says, dryly. Which sucks, because I've had all the dryness I can take tonight, especially when considering the fact that there'll be a lot more coming. The King of Dry Comments is my Prom date, after all.  
  
I take a few deep calming breaths and try to smile convincingly, and say, in the manner of Vanna White, "He's a bit held up."  
  
"Just hope he doesn't stand you up," he replies, a little grimly, walking out of the kitchen.  
  
Stand me up? If he values his health he sure as hell better not think it.  
  
  
  
LEX  
  
She acts like I'm going to stand her up. Girls, no matter how diverse they are, have a special breed of Intense Paranoia in their blood. Combined with Chloe's impatience and self-destructive insecurity (as much as she might deny it) makes for an explosive combination, and I decide that I will try and quicken the business with Clark as speedily as is humanly possible.  
  
Reaching the Kent farm, I ignore the house and go straight to the barn, knowing all too well that this is his favorite venue to mope. Clark's Kingdom of Brood. Personally, if I were to brood anywhere my last choice would be a barn that smells like shit, but I'll tolerate it for Clark's sake.  
  
And true enough, there I see Clark, my best friend, standing alone, dressed in a dark blue suit instead of red flannel, bouquet of yellow roses in one hand and a corsage in the other, eyes staring off into space.  
  
Amazing how a man can be rendered pathetic by the power of a female.  
  
I acutely remember sniffing a bouquet of lilies like an idiot earlier this afternoon and feel immensely for my dejected friend.  
  
A heartbroken boy of steel.  
  
I sigh. "Clark." 


	10. The Switch

CLARK  
  
I heard Lex's Jaguar before I heard him in my barn.  
  
Not for the first time in the past half hour since I sent his driver back, I regretted it. I should have just taken the limousine and gone to the Prom alone, it would avoid questions. I should have predicted it then, Lex would come here to check up on me. For a man so indecipherable, he lives his life in a pretty readable pattern.  
  
I knew he would check up on me. He's my best friend, after all. If he didn't, he wouldn't be my best friend.  
  
I keep that in mind because I'm getting dangerously close to resenting him for attempting to shine some light on my already rained-on parade.  
  
"Clark," he says.  
  
"Hey Lex," I reply, amiably. The light-hearted tone of my voice surprises me.  
  
He takes a few steps around me and I see him for the first time this evening. Remembering the fact that he's going to a school Prom with Chloe and not one of his many ultra-glamorous dinner parties with an equally glamorous date, he's looking pretty good.  
  
Never a man who wastes time, he says, " Your mom told me about Lana."  
  
I think about what to reply to that and decide to just not to. In a way I'm relieved. At least I wouldn't have to tell him what happened. Unfortunately, Lex doesn't seem to want to say something until I say something so I say, "Right," or something that sounds like that.  
  
He says, "So what are you planning to do?" Which is typically Lex. Don't recuperate, plan your revenge.  
  
For lack of a better word, I shrug.  
  
"You have your options," he says, taking more deliberate steps back and forth, "You can mope around here for the lifelong night or you can go to the Prom anyway and at least attempt to have some fun with your friends."  
  
Go to the Prom anyway? Of course I thought about it. Otherwise I wouldn't be dressed up to the nines in a barn. But yes, I thought about it, and I wondered about it, and I decided that moping around here seemed like a much better option than moping around at the Prom in solitude with the object of my moping in full view.  
  
"I don't know, Lex."  
  
"Well, you certainly thought about it," he points out. "Otherwise I wouldn't see the point of you being dressed up in a barn."  
  
"It seems like a sad thing to do."  
  
"What is?"  
  
"This," I show him the bouquet of yellow roses. "Going alone. Smiling. It's too tiring, Lex."  
  
He doesn't reply, just stands with his hands in his pockets, contemplating me. I'm not sure what it is exactly that he's thinking about, because of all my skills, I'm definitely no mind reader, but I'm beginning to get the feeling that he's thinking of the favor I asked him to do, to take my friend to the Prom because I felt that she didn't want to go alone.  
  
And here I am saying that I don't want to go alone because it's a sad thing to do, when I could have avoided this altogether by not asking another guy's girl to the Prom, and had gone with my best friend instead, who by now, is waiting at her house and probably getting pretty impatient, waiting for my other best friend, that I set her up with.  
  
The irony being that now I'm the one left alone.  
  
Lex breaks my thoughts, "It's hardly the end of the world, Clark."  
  
I try my utmost to sound agreeable but unfortunately end up sounding dejected, "I guess."  
  
He gives me that long measuring look again, seems to make a decision, and says, "Tell you what, Clark. Come to the Prom with Chloe and me."  
  
Right. Because being a third wheel is so much better than going alone. "No thanks."  
  
"So are you just going to stay here all night?"  
  
Sometimes Lex's urge to better everything can just tire you out, which is another irony because that's usually my job. I decide to compromise, "Tell you what. Maybe I'll see you guys there later, okay?" without any intention of actually following up on it.  
  
Lex doesn't reply, just studies me with that scrutinizing look of his, probably trying to figure out if I meant what I said, but I suppose more likely wondering if he should let me get away with that lie I just told him.  
  
Then finally, "Okay."  
  
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.  
  
"I have to go and pick Chloe up," he says. "So I'll see you later, Clark."  
  
I nod and smile at him. "Absolutely."  
  
"Just make sure you meet us there."  
  
I wave that away nonchalantly. "Absolutely."  
  
He observes me again, for a minute, before saying, "Okay." Then he starts walking away.  
  
And just before the moment where I'm ready to kick off my shoes and settle into my couch for a good long night of nothing to do, he turns back and says, "Or maybe you could do me a favor instead, Clark."  
  
  
  
CHLOE  
  
Half an hour to the minute that Lex called me to say he'll be late and I have successfully ruined my Prom dress by sweating excessively in it and my sweat glands are now all set to make another conquest over my hair.  
  
Half an hour, thirty minutes, all spent cursing the Luthor family generation and in particular their latest family addition of their fortune, who has, by all the worse quirks of fate, come to Smallville to run a plant and in the meanwhile be saved by Clark Kent and hence become friends with him and hence enter my life, and with the life saving gratitude in his mind, agree to escort me to the Prom as a favor to Clark, which has resulted in me sitting here on this couch sweating profusely in a beautiful Prom dress and cursing the day that Lex Luthor entered my life and Clark for saving him to make this possible and Lionel Luthor for being putting him in Smallville in the first place.  
  
Oh horrible twist of fate, don't ruin my hair now.  
  
  
  
CLARK  
  
I blink once. Twice. Three times. Even try a bit of x-ray vision.  
  
And Lex is still there, proposition in the air, looking a bit uncertain but steady.  
  
"What?" I say.  
  
"Take Chloe to the Prom."  
  
He's insane, but I'll forgive him for this, because of the obvious fact that he doesn't know Chloe very well to even think of such a thing. "I don't feel like committing suicide tonight, Lex." He looks at me questioningly. "Not only will I be taking away her biggest interview, I'll also be insulting her by taking her as a last ditch Prom date."  
  
"She's your friend," Lex replies. "Would she consider herself a substitute for Lana?"  
  
"Well…."  
  
"Is she?" he persists.  
  
"No! No, definitely not."  
  
"There you go," he says, probably triumphantly, probably wearily. "Take her. Take her off of my hands." And with that, he turns around abruptly and starts walking away.  
  
And I stare at his back, still registering his last words. Off of his hands? Was Chloe really that much of a burden to him? I don't know if I should feel guilty for putting him through everything or to feel insulted for Chloe and punch him through the wall.  
  
"Lex, you went through all that trouble for me."  
  
"Exactly," he says, going down the steps. "You'll be doing me a favor now, Clark. Save me from an interview and a revival of my own horrendous teenage past. You might be doing my reputation with her father a favor too."  
  
I hear all of this, believe me I do. But there's just one other thing that I need to clear, for the sake of a really good friend and for my own peace of mind. "But would you have minded going with Chloe?"  
  
He stops at that question, and it takes a few seconds for him to say, "Not at all."  
  
This relieves me, a bit. At least now I know that it wasn't totally in vain, getting Lex to take Chloe to the Prom. "I don't think she'd even want to go with me, Lex."  
  
He laughs, or something, I'm not sure because I've never heard Lex laugh before. "Then obviously one of us understands Chloe better than the other."  
  
And that's me. I find myself wrestling with this. Right?  
  
"Go Clark," he says, making a move again. "Have fun. Tell me how it goes."  
  
And with that, he's gone. Without leaving me much of an option.  
  
Or maybe he did, because I could stop him. I could still stop him, put my hand on his shoulder, and tell him to go with Chloe, because I really don't feel like facing the Prom tonight.  
  
But instead, I gather my roses and my corsage, at least thankful that it wouldn't go to waste, and head out. To pick Chloe up for the Prom.  
  
  
  
CHLOE  
  
Dad looks pointedly at the clock.  
  
"He has a very good reason," I say adamantly, but it's now strained. I'm starting to fail to see the purpose of covering up for him, being on the butt end of this nightmare.  
  
"Of course he does," Dad replies. "He's Lex Luthor. He has an answer to everything. I should know honey, I work for the man…" he's cut off by the sound of someone knocking on the door.  
  
Relief floods over me, and some cool air too because I think my sweat has dissipated some, and I jump up and rush to the door in the manner of a very pathetic teenaged girl with a crush (except it's not a crush, just relief) and fling the door open, not even angry anymore, but with the greatest overwhelming urge to hug Lex Luthor for showing up at all.  
  
I stop myself, however, when I see hair where there shouldn't be.  
  
Clark smiles impishly at me, bouquet of yellow roses in hand, wearing a dark blue suit, looking as gorgeous as he usually does in my dreams where I imagine him to come to my house, with a nervous smile on his face, ready to pick me up for the Prom.  
  
"Hi Chloe," he says.  
  
The sound of his voice jolts me back to reality and the realization that this is no dream, this really is Clark in front of me, dressed up for me, with a bouquet of roses for me, ready to take me to the Prom.  
  
And in this abnormally big mouth of mine, I seem to have lost my tongue. After about ten hours of speech loss, I'm beginning to suspect that it has been cut off and shipped away from me to an unknown country maybe on the island of Borneo.  
  
Here I start thinking about other things. About planes. Years and years ago, I was 6 years old I think, I went aboard a plane to New York (or somewhere) with my parents. I can't remember most of the details of the flight, especially now when Clark's looking at me weirdly because I've reached the ten second time limit for reasonable stunned silences, but the thing I do remember is the take-off.  
  
The loud buzzing and the rush in your ears as the plane accelerates fast enough to keep your heart in your throat before releasing itself finally into the air, soaring about the country, into the clouds and above.  
  
Flying itself is no big deal. It's the taking off that counts. I can define some of my most pleasant rushes as a take-off. And those pleasant rushes usually come in the form of Clark Kent's smile.  
  
But oddly enough, this is how I would imagine crashing.  
  
  
  
LEX  
  
I loosen the tie I went through so much pain to fix, pour myself a scotch and lean back in my seat, watching the flames flickering in the fireplace in front of me.  
  
Through the powers of persuasion, I've managed to save myself from an interview and an evening of disaster and at the same time, cheered my best friend up by letting him go to the Prom with my original date.  
  
And more likely, after the shock has worn off her, do my date a great big favor by giving her Clark Kent, the man she wanted to go to the Prom with in the first place, and probably the one she would always want to go with.  
  
A three-in-one. Yahoo Lex.  
  
My glass of scotch in my hand, I lift it up to the flames in an ironic toast.  
  
Victory.  
  
Yet here I am, feeling like all kinds of shit. 


	11. The Regret

This chapter's a bit long, but never mind.  
  
Thanks for the reviews! :)  
  
* * * * *  
  
CHLOE  
  
My Dad's understandable burst of joy could not be lost on either party in my small living room, and Clark blushes for it. To see a normal teenage boy in his living room in a mediocre suit (no matter how good it looks on him) instead of his boss in Armani has to be a comfort to the soul of any self- respecting workingman with a 16-year old daughter who has no shame.  
  
Unfortunately his happiness had me bite my tongue when I was ready to fire bone-crushing questions at said normal teenage boy as to how on God's green earth did my dates get switched in less than an hour and why did no one bother to tell me about it.  
  
I mean, what? Did both of them meet up and devised surefire ways to murder me by giving me a heart attack via shock?  
  
I glare at Clark under the safety of my carefully mascara coated eyelashes.  
  
"Clark!" Dad booms.  
  
Clark grins somewhat sheepishly, but a Clark megawatt smile is still a Clark megawatt smile and will knock you off your toes in whatever shape and form. "Hey, Mr. Sullivan."  
  
My Dad's reaction to his smile somewhat resembles my past silly putty reaction. Past meaning all times PRIOR to this evening where at this moment I feel a certainty that Clark's silly-putty rending smiles will affect me no more, because he is a cow.  
  
And so, after the notion of unethical farm boys was tossed to the wind, the camera miraculously re-appeared and the photo-taking festivities ensued.  
  
I think I was a bit dazed when all of this was going on, one could hardly blame me, looking at Clark to Dad to Clark and to an invisible spot where Lex should have been. That is, until Dad says, "Put the corsage on first!" and found Clark twiddling with a yellow rose nightmare.  
  
I snap back into the Present by wondering if the yellow roses will clash with the white lilies in my hair, and then having said roses presented to me by Clark, snatching them away from him unceremoniously and pinning it on myself.  
  
Clark's first clue that shock does not wear out anger (and mine has been simmering for half an hour), he says meekly, "Like your hair."  
  
I'm tempted to snarl at him.  
  
After another embarrassing debacle involving Clark and I circling around each other in the manner of Sumo wrestlers in his attempt to put an arm around my shoulder and my dodging, we finally settle into a comfortable position standing side by side like plastic Ken and Barbie dolls while my father snaps away.  
  
Which is a fair assessment of Clark, I must admit, and yes, I'm acutely aware that I more accurately resemble a troll in a pink dress rather than Barbie.  
  
So Dad takes his little bit of memorabilia of the night when his daughter gets screwed over, and having satisfied him and being at a very dangerously close end of the tiny little thread called my Patience, I grab Clark's arm and haul him out.  
  
I wasn't ready for the cream of the crop however, so when I see a battered truck instead of a pristine Luthor limousine, I scream in frustration, and feeling better for it, until Clark clamps his hand over my mouth and drags me to the truck.  
  
Great. Manhandled on top of everything else.  
  
I push him away with all the muscles in my body, and succeed in my mission only when he takes a voluntary step back.  
  
"You're going to tell me why you're here without Lana and Lex isn't here and you are here and why the hell no one bothered to warn me about this and you're going to make it oh so damn quick."  
  
Clark acts fast. He knows me well. "Lex couldn't make it."  
  
I sniff and detect the pungent odor of a big fat lie.  
  
"And neither could Lana."  
  
Now this surprises me. Really it does. And here I am feeling sympathy for the cow. "Why can't she make it?"  
  
Clark's cheeks tinge pink. Then, "Okay, she CAN make it. Just not with me."  
  
"Let me guess," I say wryly. "The Prodigal Jock returns."  
  
"Otherwise known as her Boyfriend."  
  
"And Lex genuinely couldn't make it?"  
  
He ignores that, which can't be good. "And we can save each other by going together! See, it works out fine." Funny he should sound so tight-lipped about it. I mean, God, sorry it's so hard to fill in Lana's perfect shoes but I didn't choose that glory.  
  
Clark's explanation sounds reasonable enough for me. Yet it isn't.  
  
"You do realize that the Barter Trade system went defunct years and years ago, possibly for reasons such as these."  
  
Clark opens the car door. "And maybe, one day, you can explain the whole history to me."  
  
I look into the (moldy) truck, at the (ratty) car seats, and contemplate it. It would be awfully easy. Just go inside, and go. Go to the Prom. Never mind Lex, I mean, this could be the easy out I was looking for. I wouldn't have to antagonize over him all night.  
  
And truthfully, going to the Prom with Clark was what I always wanted.  
  
But…  
  
Clark says, "I'm sure Lex will grant you another interview."  
  
Which sparked something else. The interview! Of all the drama I could take in less than an hour, the fact that I'll be missing out on an inclusive interview totally slipped my mind.  
  
"Oh yeah," I mutter. "The interview."  
  
Clark looks at me strangely. "I thought that was the reason why you would be upset that Lex couldn't make it tonight."  
  
I barely hear this, with the other buzzing in my head, and I find myself standing here outside of Clark's truck in my semi-wrinkled dress and my semi-messy hair, realizing the reason that I'm upset that Lex isn't here has nothing to do with the interview at all, and, feeling sharp disappointment in my chest area, is possibly the fact that he's not here period.  
  
And, of all the renowned Luthor gallantry, calling me up when he's going to be late, why didn't he call me up to tell me he couldn't make it at all?  
  
I mean, God, am I that unimportant?  
  
The other reason why I'm upset is brought back down to me at the image of Clark peering curiously at me. My pride. Lana couldn't make it? Well it's time to get back to the Chloe idea. Never mind what SHE thinks, let's just go pick her up anyway!  
  
And let's not forget that the yellow roses are clashing with the lilies in my hair.  
  
I glare at him.  
  
Clark, noticing it, sighs.  
  
"You know that never, in any circumstance, no matter how good a friend you are to me, that I will never play second fiddle to anyone."  
  
"Meaning…"  
  
"I'm not a back-up date. For anyone."  
  
"Chloe," Clark protests. "You are not a back-up date. I promise you, you're not. You're my best friend. We're going as two good friends, and if Pete has gotten unlucky too, then believe me he would be a part of this, and it would seem less like a back-up date, just friends who are turning to each other."  
  
He couldn't make it sound any less romantic than that, and I wonder if I feel worse or better at that explanation.  
  
He pauses. "Besides, if Lex could make it, I would have gone alone, and left you two."  
  
And that cinches it. That, and noticing my father looking out the window in bewilderment, probably wondering why we're standing on his driveway and not on our way for a good fun night out at the Prom.  
  
I decide to be nice, just this once.  
  
Squaring my shoulders, I get into the truck. "If this happens next year, you're getting a punch in the face, not a date."  
  
"Hey, I'll take both now," Clark grins at me, and unfortunately I feel a little silly putty effect.  
  
  
  
CLARK  
  
I guess I got lucky. Chloe could have made it a lot harder for me.  
  
It wasn't that easy anyway. But I couldn't tell her that Lex wanted me to take her off of his hands, no matter how much easier it would have been.  
  
I'm beginning to suspect that Chloe would have been very hurt by it, and I'm not just talking about her pride either.  
  
I mean, she didn't even THINK about the interview! And since Chloe thrives on the Torch on a twenty-four hour basis, this is definitely something you don't see every day.  
  
So what does that mean? Does she LIKE Lex? I mean, LIKE like?  
  
Can't be possible. Lex isn't even her type.  
  
Yeah, because I'd know what Chloe's type is. Every time I'm sure about Chloe, she always manages to spin around and surprise me. Look at that incident with Sean. He was hardly her type, even before the sucking-people- of-their-warmth habit.  
  
So what, does she like Lex? Would that be surprising, really? I mean, the guy's rich, good-looking, mysterious, charming… everything a girl would want in a guy.  
  
But Chloe's not every girl. Chloe's different.  
  
I start up my engine and reverse out of her driveway. I glance at Chloe. She's looking out the window, her hands on her lap, uncharacteristically silent.  
  
She looks good, too. But since I have a feeling that she'll just throw the 'back-up date' speech in my face, I don't think I'll be telling her that.  
  
But she is looking, you know, good. Pretty.  
  
And she managed to eat up the 'Lex couldn't make it' idea. I think shock managed to get the 'why couldn't he' question away. I know that lying isn't one of my better skills, and to make up a full-fledged reason would seem too much for me to handle at the moment.  
  
As if she could read my mind (a talent I've always suspected that Chloe has), she turns to me and asks, "Why couldn't Lex make it?"  
  
Oh no. Think quick, Clark. Quick. Taking too long would make her suspicious. Why couldn't Lex make it? Business plans. Father called him. Dammit. Quick, Clark, quick. Okay, now I'm taking too long. Just say anything!  
  
"I don't know," I finally say.  
  
She looks at me suspiciously.  
  
"Something came up. He didn't say."  
  
She seems satisfied. Or maybe she isn't, because her eyebrows are all furrowed and I can see her weighing out the likely possibility of me lying through my teeth.  
  
"Right," she says, and nothing else.  
  
Which is good. I breathe a quiet sigh of relief. I'm starting to prefer the uncharacteristically silent Chloe at the moment.  
  
  
  
CHLOE  
  
And so we made our way to the Prom.  
  
Since my Prom dream has recently been revised so that Clark would not be in it, and concentrates on my full glory of going with Smallville's millionaire mystery in a Jaguar (I was hoping) or a limousine, and then topping it off with a revealing article about said millionaire mystery, needless to say arriving at the Prom in a truck was a tiny little crunch to my dignity.  
  
Not that I'm a snob or anything, I've never minded Clark's truck, but when you're stepping out of it and almost break the heel of your shoe while simultaneously snagging the hemline of your dress on the door, you tend to wish for smoother forms of transportation.  
  
Add the fact that the air-conditioning wasn't working so the window was open and my hair has gone from immaculate to wind blown, with lilies vainly holding on to my tendrils.  
  
Clark un-snags my dress and grins at me. "I'll never get used to Chloe in a pretty dress."  
  
Like he's never seen me in a dress. I'm tempted to ask what happened to Lex's limousine, but decide not to push it. I might not like the answer.  
  
We walk through the parking lot in some silence, waving at various people we know, until we reach the gym doors.  
  
I'm wondering what form of crappy music it is that they're playing in there when I notice that Clark is looking a bit green.  
  
"You alright?"  
  
He looks at me as if he's just noticed that I'm there, and nods enthusiastically. "Fine. I'm fine."  
  
"You don't look fine."  
  
"Well, I am," he says, in a way that tells me that he doesn't want to continue the subject.  
  
"Is it a Lana thing?"  
  
"No!" he says exasperatedly.  
  
I shrug. Ask a guy a question and he gets all defensive. Does he not remember that I'm on the butt end of this? I look at him with some contempt until he gestures his arm at me.  
  
"Shall we?" he says, a smile on his face.  
  
I take his arm, and we both smile at each other. The pairing I've dreamed about for some time: a short blonde and her tall friend. Except tonight the short blonde is thinking about a bald man and her tall friend is still hung up over a brunette infinitely prettier than the short blonde.  
  
Obviously the Prom is not as magical as it's cracked up to be.  
  
Clark with a deep breath and me with a sigh, we go through the gym doors and brave the Prom.  
  
All the while I wonder what it was that Lex had to do.  
  
  
  
LEX  
  
My second glass of Scotch in my head and my fourth consecutive game of 9- ball with myself and I have since decided that I have come a very long way from Humiliated status and have landed myself squarely in the land of Pathetic.  
  
It's Saturday night and I am my own company.  
  
They're probably at the Prom right now. Dancing. Having fun. Being teenagers. Having a life.  
  
But, as I rack up the balls for my fifth game, I consider the options. Would I really have wanted to attend a Prom with an overly inquisitive blonde who talks too much and be surrounded by the general bedlam that is consistent when you put a big group of teenagers in a room together?  
  
Which would hardly be the highlight of my week, all things considered.  
  
So who cares if they're at the Prom? Let them go to the Prom. I'm the one who offered it. Take Chloe off of my hands. Take the interview off of my hands. Take it far away from me.  
  
I don't need it. I've never needed it. I don't intend to start needing it now.  
  
After another silent victory on the Pool table, I pour myself another Scotch and find myself staring at the bouquet of wasted lilies, with its matching corsage, lying on my desk.  
  
I glance at the Pool table and I begin to understand that being devoid of things to do makes me a really bad drunk or a really depressing person.  
  
But since I'm not drunk, it might be that I'm just depressed. Or pathetic. Take your pick.  
  
And I've started sniffing the lilies again.  
  
And I am, despairingly, bored out of my skull.  
  
They're probably at the Prom right now.  
  
This was my choice. I never had any desire to go to the Prom. It was Clark's favor that presented the opportunity to me, reliving teenage hell. And an interview to make it all the more shitty. What I wouldn't do for the boy.  
  
I discarded Chloe. That's what I would do for the boy.  
  
And I did it for her as well. It would not have taken any man with genius caliber to understand that the true reason why she was upset about the Prom wasn't entirely because she had to go alone, it was because Clark decided to go with someone else.  
  
She can deny it all she wants, but I just did her a favor.  
  
She better be fucking appreciative of that.  
  
Especially since I'm left here standing alone, feeling something that very unfortunately feels like regret.  
  
Never, in all things I have done in my life, have I ever regretted. I find that contemplating actions that cannot be revised no matter how rich you are is the biggest time-waster a person should ever have to endure. I don't regret because I feel that if I do, I would spend hours alone drinking myself into a black void, killing my sanity over the wrong and figuring out how to better the right.  
  
I have no intention of ever putting myself through that kind of ordeal, especially over a trivial thing like a Prom.  
  
A Prom and an opportunity.  
  
Maybe I am drunk. I would have to be to agonize over something like this.  
  
And pathetic, let's not forget that.  
  
Feeling a sudden repulsion for the Pool table and with no inclination of continuing to stand here sniffing lilies like a fool, I go back to my original position on the couch in front of the fireplace.  
  
I sit down and think, really think, of what to do.  
  
Something I've never had to worry about but is presently killing my brain cells at the immense effort.  
  
I could be dancing right now.  
  
I could be dancing with Chloe right now.  
  
I wouldn't be going through the pains of an interview, or even talking, but swaying to music with her energy in my arms and her hair on my face.  
  
A very irrepressible thought that decrees, if nothing else, that it's high time I lay off the alcohol.  
  
Maybe I should take a drive.  
  
And as if that was the answer that I've been waiting for all this evening, I get up, grab my car keys and make my way down to the garage, new opportunities presenting themselves to me.  
  
Unfortunately, Smallville being the small town that it is, the only opportunity that presents itself is the Talon for a cup of coffee.  
  
Which is fine, I decide as I start the engine of my Jaguar. Fine. There's nothing wrong with having a cup of coffee alone at the Talon.  
  
Perhaps Clark will go there after the Prom and I can ask him how it went.  
  
And as this thought crosses my mind, a more irresistible option opens itself to me.  
  
I could just drive by the Prom and see for myself.  
  
Seeing this to be no cause of concern for me or the fact that I'm in a state dangerously close to pitiable, I weigh out the better option and make my decision quickly, before I change my mind.  
  
And so, I drive off of my property and head in the general direction of the high school. 


	12. The Lost Prom Date

Again and again, thank you thank you thank you for the reviews. It really keeps me going.  
  
* * * * *  
  
CHLOE  
  
The townsfolk of Smallville have no imagination whatsoever and there's evidence of this everywhere you look, and you wouldn't have to look far. Find yourself smack dab in the middle of a small town that's called Smallville. They have an annual market where farmers sell their local produce called Farmers Market. There's a huge plant run by the Luthors called LuthorCorp (yes, I know LuthorCorp is a Metropolis based company, conglomerate, whatever; but since the latest Luthor has been plaguing my mind of late, I figured why the hell not).  
  
You might want to congratulate The Beanery and The Talon for its ingenuity.  
  
And so, if you happen to be an innocent to Smallville and it's your first time attending a high school Prom, don't be surprised when you walk through the gym doors and fail to see any theme of any sort.  
  
I'm not strictly woman-of-the-world here, so what the hell am I talking about right? Besides spending my pre-teen years in Metropolis, and knowing a lot about meteorite rocks, I really don't know that much. But I'll call myself an internationally based chick if only from the knowledge I acquire from books, movies and whatever form of WB they show on the television. And since I'm a particular expert of John Hughes movies, I'll have you know that each high school Prom has a theme, and what theme they don't have, they make up in magnificence.  
  
Of which you'll see neither here.  
  
Okay, I'm not totally devoid of any school spirit so I'll applaud the efforts of the Prom committee (all those bubbleheads) for making the gym look at least out of the ordinary.  
  
Some glitter here, streamers there, strobe lights making lazy circles on the dance floor (which suggests an Under The Sea theme if nothing else), and seriously the Prom doesn't look too bad. There's also the general wonderment at the sight of your high school mates dressed to the nines when you usually see them in various forms of plaid or letterman jackets. Some look good enough to be called decoration and some dressed revealingly enough to be called entertainment.  
  
I turn to Clark to ask if he's getting any merman tendencies and if we should start swimming towards the buffet table, but the words die in my mouth. He's standing stiff as a board, jaw set and staring straight ahead with the most pitiable puppy dog expression on his face.  
  
I don't even have to look. But hell, why not? My night's shot already, anyway.  
  
So obviously I'm not dying of shock when I see Lana and Whitney on the dance floor, arms around each other, staring into each other's eyes. Looking like a typical lovesick couple people either envy or cannot stand. Envy in Clark's case, the latter for mine.  
  
And I notice that Lana's blue dress would match the yellow roses perfectly.  
  
God, you'd think she'd have the decency to look miserable, or guilty, or at least ugly.  
  
However, one cannot dwell on such matters as these (however fun it might be) for too long when one has a friend who needs immediate cheering up (even if he did put this on himself).  
  
I clear my throat loudly. "Hey Clark, guess what?"  
  
He replies with a very unenthusiastic shrug of his shoulders. A surefire sign that said friend has begun to lose all interest in the event and is dragging me down with him.  
  
"I've made a quick survey," I continue anyway. "And I'm pleased to confirm that, due to unanimous decision, the girl on your arm is without a doubt the prettiest girl in the room, and a shoo-in for title of Prom Queen. You may feel proud."  
  
This manages to get a grin out of him, a silly putty one, and he pats my head. "I am."  
  
Seconds after that, his grin disappears and he continues looking sullenly at the happy couple, the future Prom Queen and Prom Jock, the former being the key to Clark's happiness (as obviously, his friends aren't cutting it anymore) and the downfall of my evening.  
  
And she WILL get the Prom Queen title too, I'll bet my shoes on it, and it just adds to the list of reasons as to why life is so unfair.  
  
Sick to my toes of rescuing my dignity, my hair, my Prom dress, my pride, my evening, my everything, I desert Clark in his time of need as he has evidently deserted me, and start making my way to the punch bowl in severe hopes that it's spiked.  
  
  
  
CLARK  
  
I was feeling fine on my way to Chloe's. It might have been the trepidation that was all but eating me up as I wondered if Chloe would give me hell or just slam the door in my face. And if she wasn't so shell-shocked I think she might have done both.  
  
I was fine on the way to the Prom, more relieved than anything else that Chloe didn't slam the door in my face or give me half the hell that I expected her to lash at me. Not forgetting that my mind was more engaged on the possibility of Chloe having feelings for Lex. Shocking and sufficiently controversial enough for there to be anything else on my mind.  
  
Maybe I was just pushing it out of my mind.  
  
It wasn't until I faced the gym doors that I ultimately realized that I will be facing Lana and Whitney in there, and the effect that had on me was like the gym doors had meteorite rocks embedded in it. That is: not good. Try as I might, a subject is kind of hard to push away when it's right in front of you.  
  
And of course, since life is nice that way, the first thing I see when I went through the doors is Lana.  
  
And what really, really pains me is how happy they look together.  
  
It's always the same thing. When I'm with Lana, I'm convinced of how Whitney isn't good enough for her. Then I see how happy they look together, and I have to give in to the reluctance that maybe he is, to make her look that content.  
  
I don't know if I could ever make her look at me that way. Sometimes I notice a look in her eyes, or maybe it's just a nervous movement, or just a different smile when she's around me. But still, I don't know if it came to that, if she would be gazing into my eyes like she gazes into Whitney's. And I don't know how I'd feel if it did come to that, and she didn't.  
  
And strong guy that I am, I felt something break inside of me. Does Lana know this? The effect she has on me?  
  
Putting someone through this pain seems like a really cruel thing to do. I hope I never find myself as a cause for anyone's pain, intentionally or unintentionally.  
  
I stare at them transfixed for what seems like ages, a glutton for my own pain, when Pete's face pops in front of me and breaks the spell. Or curse.  
  
"Hey Clark, I gotta ask," he says urgently, glancing behind and around him like a secret agent on a mission.  
  
"Hey Pete, where's your date?"  
  
He ignores that very unimportant question. "CLARK. What happened? Why is Lana here with Whitney instead of you?"  
  
"Because Whitney is Lana's boyfriend?" I surmise, with just a hint of an ironic tone. But being sarcastic is too tiring. I have no idea where Chloe gets the energy. "And I guess his aunt got better."  
  
Pete looks at me sympathetically. I kind of feel better for it. "So you're alone, huh?"  
  
"Yes," I say without thinking. Then stop and remember, "No. I'm here with Chloe."  
  
Pete looks more baffled. Can't say I blame him. I'm getting a bit confused now too. "What happened to Lex?"  
  
"Something came up." It's true what they say: lying does get easier with practice.  
  
"So where's Chloe?"  
  
I pause and look at him. Then I glance to my side, and find an empty spot where there should have been Chloe.  
  
As if I haven't screwed up enough.  
  
I say, "Uh-oh."  
  
Pete sighs loudly and puts a hand on my shoulder. "You're gonna have to take some really valuable lessons in dating, Clark, because as far as I remember, losing your date is a Numero Uno No-no."  
  
"Add it to the list of incredibly unlucky and stupid things to happen to me today. GREAT," I groan loudly. "Oh, she can't be happy."  
  
"Nope," Pete agrees, never one to twist the truth around when it comes to Chloe. Then, "Clara just got out of the ladies. Lots of luck, man."  
  
"Yeah I need it," I reply miserably, but he's gone. Huh. Guess there's a little super speed in everyone, if the occasion calls for it.  
  
Oh well. Taking one last look at Lana and Whitney, I start my search for my lost Prom date.  
  
  
  
CHLOE  
  
Extremely, catastrophically misfortunate to find in the punch bowl a clean and healthy mixture of fruit juices with no hint of alcohol or anything equally toxic in it. Not that I have actually drunk before, but if there's any good time to start, it would definitely be this evening.  
  
In any case, whether spiked with mind-altering substances or just good and healthy fruity fun, I drink the punch like it's my only company (which it is). Maybe getting stomach indigestion from an overdose of citrus acids could cause a dizzying effect relatively similar to the effects of being drunk. Both would result in vomiting anyway.  
  
Sighing, alone and so alone, I lean against the table and cradle the cup of punch in my hands. My eyes scan the room and involuntarily– in an attempt to make myself feel worse, no doubt- fall on the perfect couple that is Lana and Whitney, totally oblivious to the fact that they have just unwittingly ruined Clark's evening and in doing so set off a whole chain of events that would lead to my imminent downfall.  
  
And there they are, all over each other.  
  
Except that they're… not.  
  
They're not even dancing. They're just standing in front of each other, not touching. And that's not a smile on Lana's perfect face, that's a frown.  
  
And maybe the punch really is spiked because I'm finding it extremely hard to grapple with reality at the moment, and I blink several times to make sure that I really am seeing what I'm seeing.  
  
But it soon hits home.  
  
Dear God, is the future Prom Queen and King of this sad little menagerie having a fight?  
  
  
  
CLARK  
  
I always thought that being tall has its advantages. Sure I was a freak when I was twelve and taller than the whole class, but since I've turned 16 and my father confirmed that I really am a freak of nature, it doesn't bother me now. Being tall would be the least of my problems, and since it's more of a healthy thing at 16 than a freaky thing at 12, I've started appreciating the ability to look over people's heads and know who has healthy hair and who's suffering from dandruff.  
  
Since I've started my hunt for Chloe I've been particularly appreciative. My only obstacle now is Chloe's height.  
  
I found the familiar blonde head though, and if I didn't, I would have used a little x-ray skill to scan purses for notebooks (Chloe would probably be the only girl in the gym to have one, and I'm pretty sure she has one). As I started weaving my way through the crowd towards her, I heard someone say my name.  
  
Looking around and finding no one calling me, I continue my walk to Chloe, and I hear my name again. Unmistakably, in the form of Lana's voice. But she wasn't calling me.  
  
When I glance at the dance floor, I realize that Whitney and Lana are not dancing anymore. In fact, they look like they're having an argument.  
  
When I hear my name again, from Whitney's mouth this time and with a good deal more anger dashed into it, it gives me a clue as to what they're fighting about exactly.  
  
And wait a second, is that Lex standing over there?  
  
  
  
CHLOE  
  
I know this is horrible of me but I'm really enjoying this. It could very well be the highlight of my evening!  
  
As much as I try dragging my attention away from the two lovebirds (okay, maybe I wasn't trying that hard), my gaze stays transfixed on them, pretty much like the way Clark was staring at them earlier on, but obviously without the puppy dog expression (no one can master that expression as well as Clark, anyway). This is, seriously speaking, entertainment at its very best. A soap opera on the gym floor. How you would imagine Romeo and Juliet having an argument.  
  
Lana and Whitney fights are few and far between so really, if it does happen, you take what you can get.  
  
Whitney's voice raises a notch and by this time everyone's looking at them. Lana turns pink, and I try to read her lips to get a clue as to what they're fighting about. This would be a highly practical skill for situations such as these, and it's the one skill that I very unfortunately have no talent in whatsoever. Busybodies like me should master skills like those.  
  
I will have to opt for casually walking past them.  
  
But, lip reader or no lip reader, I watch Lana mouth a word instantly recognizable to me. And really, I should have guessed it anyway.  
  
Clark. 


	13. The Girl in The Pink Dress

LEX  
  
By the time I reached the high school parking lot and found my Jaguar amidst an array of lesser forms of transportation, my mind was already beginning to administer second thoughts. Something that you would be unable to avoid, no matter how fast your car or the reckless manner in which you drive it.  
  
And now I find myself sitting in my car, staring hard at the school as if looking for provocation or very good reasons for me to go in and join teenage splendor at its most glamorous in Smallville. I sit in a stupor of suddenly rationalized thoughts, the effect of which resembles getting your intoxicated head dunked in a tub of freezing water and getting shocked out of being drunk.  
  
There is no good reason for me to go inside. Not to the public eye, or most importantly, Clark's eye. Any ordinary man can waltz inside and be treated as a member of the high school, but not me. Why would Lex Luthor, of all his historical clubbing glory behind his back, choose to seek entertainment in a high school Prom? Clark's favor is off my shoulders, I don't have a good reason.  
  
But, of course I do. I never go to any destination without a purpose. It's a futility I can do without. My purpose for this evening, however, lacks conviction.  
  
How do you explain away the compulsion to see Chloe's face?  
  
No doubt about it. Sitting in this car, having left the comfort of my home to mingle with the different breeds of insecure and inane teenagers of Smallville in a traditional event practiced by the rest of the country and never particularly enjoyed by me (if only for the sole reason that bald teenagers are no Prom Kings, and I dislike losing) I have begun to confirm the suspicion that Chloe has managed to throw a very well-placed wrench into the well-oiled engine called my mind.  
  
Something I feel far from thankful about, and am currently bordering on resentment.  
  
But another part of me concedes, only too aware of the despair that lurches at the thought of her. I guess I still am drunk.  
  
My name is Alexander Joseph Luthor and I am an alcoholic. Except that I'm not.  
  
My name is Alexander Joseph Luthor and I can have anything that I want, or anything that does not breach the terms and conditions listed on the contract of being the son of Lionel Luthor. Sign with the company stamp in the presence of two witnesses.  
  
And sweet, blonde teenage girls that will only serve to ruin your reputation and possibly break your heart in the process are not a part of that signed deal. Maybe the signed deal to ruin the empire you have painstakingly built in the 21 miserable years that you have been on this earth.  
  
However, signed deal or no signed deal, I don't believe in wasted efforts. I came here on a purpose, however futile, and it would be no consolation for me to leave at this moment.  
  
Maybe I should, at least, take a peek.  
  
At which thought, I climbed out of my car and started striding my way towards the school, following the sound of music (or whatever form of sentimental shit it sounds like). I walked past the makeshift reception desk outside of the gym doors without hesitation, and without the redhead behind the desk stopping me, and walked in.  
  
Walked in to an immediate view of Lana Lang and Whitney Fordham, arguing. The latter of which at first unrecognizable to me without the familiar red and yellow color over his shoulders in the form of a letterman jacket, but being slow on the uptake due to three quick shots of Scotch is nothing but understandable.  
  
I seem to have missed the more exciting part, however, because almost as soon as I walk in, the argument abruptly ends by the departure of Super Jock, storming past me to the door I recently entered.  
  
And then I realized something else.  
  
He left Lana alone.  
  
And with Clark being the servant to the people, or particularly the servant to Lana's fragile little heart, that would leave just one other person alone in here.  
  
At which thought, I start scanning the crowds for a familiar blonde girl, having finally found a reasonable purpose.  
  
  
  
CHLOE  
  
All the former enjoyment I felt in seeing the little bit of drama on the dance floor started to ebb away when I saw the distraught look on Lana's pretty face, and gave away entirely when Whitney stormed off.  
  
I don't know if it's a gift, a talent or an effect of the piece of meteorite she keeps around her neck on occasion (which seems to signify a need to become a deformed freak, and in result finding something else to feel tragic about), but Lana has this 'come hither and smooth my hair while I weep' quality about her that seems to affect all forms of human, sarcastic females with inferiority complexes included.  
  
I watched as she started walking off the dance floor, away from the direction of where Whitney stalked off in typical St. Jock macho manner, and instead towards the ladies room. No one walked in after her, and with the drama gone, the evening continued. It made me wonder if the Homecoming Queen and inevitable Prom Queen and ex-pom pom girl had any real friends.  
  
And here I am feeling sorry for her.  
  
Which reminds me all too clearly of someone else. Glancing at the area where I deserted my 'Prom date', I find him glued to a spot closer to me than where I left him last, which shows that he at least attempted to search for me and made slight progress. At the very least.  
  
His eyes are locked on the door she disappeared behind and he heaves a huge sigh.  
  
I approach him. "Interesting evening so far. I wonder what other form of entertainment they have planned."  
  
"I heard a bald man might make an appearance."  
  
My head snaps at him, almost painfully. Bald man? Appearance? What? How? Where? When?  
  
I stifle the questions and pretend to laugh. "Hahaha. Really. Where."  
  
Annoyingly, he ignores it. "I hope Lana's okay."  
  
Sure. Put her problems ahead of mine. Why not? I'm used to it anyway. It doesn't even register pain to me anymore, just a dulled contorted twist of envious rage.  
  
Of course, Clark wouldn't know that Lex Luthor holds enough significance in my life to be called a 'problem'. Which, in fact, maybe he isn't. Or maybe the fact that he seems to hold significance in my eyes is what makes it a problem.  
  
A big one if you don't bear any resemblance to Victoria Hardwick or whatever type of polished female specimen he has hanging on his arm. In this lifetime or any lifetimes in the future.  
  
The enormity of this gives me a pain in my head and I decide to forget myself and concentrate on my friend in need, even if I resent him for it.  
  
Although, looking at his anguished face, I'm beginning to suspect that there is no amount of damage control I could organize into the situation that would make him feel better.  
  
And I know, with a certainty, that the only thing that will cheer Clark up tonight is a smile on Lana's face directed at him.  
  
Oddly enough, I feel fine about it.  
  
  
  
LEX  
  
Typical.  
  
I will forebear comments on the wilted decorations of the general event with the reasoning that being present at a huge number of upper class events is bound to make an ordinary high school Prom look pale in comparison.  
  
However, being amidst a congregation of the teenaged population of Smallville where anything can happen (and in this town, 'anything' stretches to wild X-Files theories) and finding that in any event, the attention is still on Lana Lang, just seems to tell me that there is no hope for the younger generation and future leaders of Smallville to go beyond the town limits and themselves. Smallville is a doomed town with no hopes of reaching city stardom.  
  
Which is fine, I suppose. People hate change. I find that especially true in townsfolk. Why do you think they hate me so much? What with my big bad cars and my big bad plant and my big bad house, I seem to be the epitome of everything they don't want to happen in this town.  
  
I overhear two teenaged girls whispering furiously to each other about the little bit of soap opera as enacted by Lana Lang and Whitney Fordham, and am at least thankful that no one seems to be paying attention to me.  
  
Until I notice more people eyeing me in bewilderment and alarm.  
  
I smother the sore temptation to flip my middle finger at them. Instead I direct my energy towards finding the reason as to why I am subjecting myself to this outright humiliation of being treated like an outsider. Teenagers have no tact.  
  
I start making my way around the gym in a disinterested stance when I see a familiar blonde head and feel an annoying quickening of my pulse, which eludes the disinterested behavior altogether, if only to myself. Fortunately, being a scary outsider and all-round intimidating figure does have its fringe benefits: I never have to walk through a throng of people without them willingly stepping out of my way.  
  
I intend to use this to the best of my abilities when I walk into a brick wall instead.  
  
After the general dazed and confused euphoria that comes in the aftermath of walking yourself bodily into a wall, I find the brick wall to be Clark Kent.  
  
"Lex, what are you doing here?" he says, with the innocence of a schoolboy totally unaware that his best friend has come here with thoughts of pursuing his blonde friend.  
  
"Just thought I'd drop by," and feel a painful high degree of alarm when I detect a slight slurry quality to my voice. Oh shit. Maybe I am drunk.  
  
Thankfully, Clark doesn't seem to notice it. He awards my little piece of dishonesty with a huge smile that hurts my eyes. "I'm glad you decided to come."  
  
"I was bored out of my mind so I figured this couldn't be any worse." Still looking for Chloe and with no inclination to indulge in friendly small talk, I ask, "Where's your-?"  
  
He interrupts me. "By the way, I kind of made up an excuse for you."  
  
I stop. "What do you mean, Clark?"  
  
"I made up an excuse to Chloe why you couldn't go with her." There's a guilt-ridden expression on his face that would make any normal person incredulous.  
  
Far from incredulity, I'm more worried about what excuse he gave her, particularly in the knowledge that lying is far down on the list of Clark's better talents. "Which was?"  
  
"I just said something came up."  
  
"What came up?"  
  
"I didn't specify."  
  
Thank God. "Thanks," I say, not sure what I should be thankful about, besides the fact that Clark has unwittingly put a thorn in Chloe's good thoughts of me (if she has any) by making her less important than something that came up.  
  
And she is, I quickly remind myself. Had something come up that required my full and undivided attention, she would have been the less important of the two. Remember yourself, Luthor.  
  
But since nothing has come up tonight, "Where is she?"  
  
"She went to the ladies," he says. "To check on Lana."  
  
I pause at his words, as if slowly registering them, which I am. "Why?"  
  
Clark shrugs. "Worried about her, I guess."  
  
Worried about her, he guesses. I feel myself asking him with an odd tinge of resentment, "Did you make her check on Lana?"  
  
Clark denies this with a quick, "NO!" The loudness of which elevates over the sentimental crap playing on the speakers (what is that? Enrique Iglesias? Christ) and goes straight to piercing my eardrums. He amends this with a more calm and convincing, "No."  
  
Good. But I refrain from saying as such. After all that has happened in the whirlwind of the past two days, I don't think I've ever felt this urgent need to keep my friendship with Clark intact. He seems to be the only thing normal in my life, and I cling to what I know.  
  
Even so, I picture the two girls in my mind, both the very opposite of each other yet united by the same farm boy in their lives. One very upset and the other probably struggling to keep her sarcasm in check.  
  
It must be a nightmare for her.  
  
  
  
CHLOE  
  
As if my night couldn't get any worse. I have to be stuck in this whitewashed excuse of a bathroom babysitting the Prom Queen and passing tissues to her so her tears won't ruin the make-up on her face which would be on show for the whole of Smallville to see when she collects her crown for Prom Queen.  
  
A fate, I decide, Lana could probably do without.  
  
"He just makes me so mad!" she exclaims, for the hundredth time.  
  
"I know," I sigh, for my ninety-ninth.  
  
But I brought this on myself, so I shouldn't complain. I don't know what it is exactly that made me decide to console Lana in one of her many moments of grief, but I did. I'm suspecting a curiosity to know what exactly they were arguing about, a curiosity I suppose comes with my penchant for drama.  
  
I am my own worst enemy. Standing side by side with Lana, knowing from our reflections in the mirror that she looks prettier than me even in tears, confirms that fact.  
  
But since I'm a person that turns to rationality in the face of despair, I decide to subject Lana to a bit of optimism with this obvious reminder, "It's not the end of the world."  
  
"I know," she sniffles prettily. "It's just, GOD, why doesn't he understand?"  
  
"Understand what, exactly?"  
  
"That Clark and I are just friends!" Oh God, here it comes. "Why does he have to be so jealous of him?"  
  
Besides the fact that if they were in New York instead of Smallville, Clark would be hunted down by several modeling agencies whereas Whitney would probably find himself gracing the counters of Burger King.  
  
That's right, Chloe, bite down the sarcasm. Bite it hard.  
  
"In all seriousness, Lana, considering the fact that I'm one of Clark's best friends, I find the 'friendship' term between you and him to be a very blurry image."  
  
"No," she insists. "No. It's not like that, Chloe."  
  
Who does she think she's fooling?  
  
"REALLY," she insists, seeing my disbelieving face.  
  
Not in the mood to argue, especially over the subject of Clark, I shrug. "Okay."  
  
Satisfied that everything in her world has gone back to the black and white tragedy of her normal life, which does not deal with the colored confusions of maybe (shock horrors) liking Clark a bit more than she'd like to admit, she dries her eyes and takes a deep breath.  
  
"Ready for the world?" I can't keep the wry tone out of my voice.  
  
She gives me a watery smile and nods. "Thanks, Chloe. You've made me feel tons better."  
  
Suddenly gratified at this angelic image of me, I grin at her. "Thanks."  
  
  
  
LEX  
  
Finally the moment we've all been waiting for: Lana and Chloe emerge from the ladies room with a look of spiritual contentment on Lana's face and a look of desperation on Chloe's.  
  
I turn my watchful, if not slightly hazy, eye on Clark, who watches them passively.  
  
When I notice Chloe separating herself from Lana and moving towards a direction away from us, to where I highly suspect is the buffet table, I ask Clark, "So what are you going to do about it?"  
  
"Lana or Chloe?" he says, dryly.  
  
"At least realize that you have the good fortune to choose between two beautiful ladies, Clark."  
  
He looks at me weirdly, probably not understanding a word I'm saying. "One of which has a boyfriend and the other being my best friend."  
  
I'm hit with the awareness that Clark would most probably remain clueless of the effect he has on these two women until the end of his days.  
  
I point out his obvious choice. "Go and comfort Lana."  
  
"Do you think I should?"  
  
"I would." Which isn't true. If I found Chloe upset over Clark I think I would prefer the easier choice of staying away. I prefer to remain sedate from antagonizing matters of the heart, and I suspect that seeing Chloe heartbroken over Clark would only succeed in binding me with acute agony. I add, for Clark's comfort, and my benefit, "I'll take care of Chloe."  
  
Clark gives me a grateful smile, and I cut off his thanks. You don't thank men with ulterior motives.  
  
And so, I leave Clark and make my way easily through the crowd, and find her at the buffet table. Seemingly lost in conversation with the cup of punch in my hand, she's unaware of me standing some feet away from her.  
  
She looks pretty.  
  
Beautiful wouldn't be the word to describe Chloe, and it never will be. She knows that as much as I know that, even with this tolerably strong feeling for her in my chest. Strong enough to pardon her of all the sarcastic comments she throws at me, and strong enough to make me appreciate them instead.  
  
But she does have a beautiful smile.  
  
Of course, I wouldn't be myself if I didn't hesitate. However (or maybe I'm still drunk), the sight of her seems to beckon at me with a provocative apple scent, and tells me that whatever urges I need to cleanse out of my system is there.  
  
In that girl with the pink dress.  
  
I find myself walking towards her before I'm even aware that my feet have made the progress without consulting my mind.  
  
And as I walk to her, I'm hit with a clarifying certainty, which swallows my hesitation and puts on a brave new face. That whatever the outcome of this evening, my life would never boil down to an evening spent with a pretty girl. Chloe could reject me in the most painful or degrading of manners, and my views of the world would not alter a bit. I would still wake up tomorrow morning, with the same ambitions in mind, and nothing would change.  
  
But the attempt for world domination would have to be shelved for tomorrow.  
  
I can plead insanity tonight.  
  
  
  
* * * * * *  
  
Author's Note: I have nothing against Enrique Iglesias whatsoever, just have a feeling that Lex wouldn't like his music.  
  
Love the reviews, each one, what a buzz, thanks so much! :) 


	14. The Original Prom Date

CHLOE  
  
What with all the events that has risen to bite me in the ass this evening, including how this traitorous cup of punch in my hand refuses to indulge in conversation, I guess it was only inevitable that I would end up a wallflower.  
  
A wallflower in pink. And what REALLY bites is that I actually came here with a date. And I went through such pains for it, too.  
  
Abandoned by Clark, Pete, Lex, Clark and punch alike. In that order. I sigh.  
  
Okay, I know Clark's not totally lost on me yet. But having had much experience in these matters (those concerning Clark ditching me to present a strong plaid covered shoulder to Lana for her to cry on, in all her moments of grief), I'll have to say that if he hasn't ditched me yet, then he's progressing towards it.  
  
He would have more luck finding me at this state. I have no intention of moving one inch from this buffet table. I have found my consolation: it is punch and it is food. How pathetic is that.  
  
"Good to see how well you've acquainted yourself with that cup in your hand."  
  
The voice in my ear jolts me physically out of wallflower mode. I whirl around, very inconveniently due to semi-full cup of punch in my hand (but when in shock you don't register things like these) and I find Lex Luthor in front of me in all his glory, yummy gray suit and all, amused smirk on his face.  
  
Pink punch splatters over my hand and my dress but annoyingly, a drop doesn't touch him. He probably has a meteorite based imperfection repellant formula for situations such as these.  
  
I yearn, crave, desire, NEED to say something witty in response but shock doesn't allow you to be witty. In fact, I forgot what it was he said to me in the first place.  
  
Instead, I say the most unimaginative thing ever in the world: "What are you doing here?"  
  
"Last time I checked we had a date," he replies.  
  
He reaches out an arm behind me and for a giddy suspenseful moment I'm wondering if he's putting an arm around me and how the hell am I supposed to react to that and if I should put an arm around him too or push him off when he brings his arm back to his side and pops a piece of sausage into his mouth.  
  
Maybe that was the snap I needed. Because suddenly, I remember something very important that I had to say to him that will not endure ignorance for a second longer.  
  
"Yeah well last time I checked YOU DITCHED ME."  
  
He winces visibly, probably not at the words I said but possibly due to the volume in which I said those words.  
  
Which doesn't matter. I feel my own smirk coming on.  
  
Hah. Eat THAT, Lex Luthor. Ditch me and suffer my wrath!  
  
But he will remain the smooth operator until the end of his days and replies, "Something came up." Making that little vague excuse of a reason sound more convincing than Clark did.  
  
But I wouldn't be a reporter if I didn't dig for the truth. "WHAT came up exactly?"  
  
Not missing a beat, "An unavoidable situation that required my immediate attention."  
  
"Which is?"  
  
"Something that doesn't concern you," he replies archly, with a look on his face that tells me to drop the subject already. A look more easily defined as annoyed.  
  
Dropping the subject (for now), I move to another pressing matter: "Why didn't you call me?"  
  
He looks at me blankly.  
  
"You've probably read the Handbook on Chivalrous Methods of Dating, Lex. You called to say you'll be late but you didn't call to tell me you couldn't make it at all. WHY?"  
  
He exhales loudly. "Because it slipped my mind." Then as an afterthought, "I'm sorry."  
  
Slipped his mind?? "What kind of a lousy excuse is THAT?"  
  
"Chloe, would you please just believe that I had a very good and plausible excuse to miss our date this evening?"  
  
"Then what are you doing here now?"  
  
"The matter solved itself sooner than I anticipated, so as soon as it did I came over to see if there was a date I could still salvage."  
  
The answer is a whole lot more charming than I expected, and remembering all too clearly that beyond my smart-ass attitude is a girl whose only experience with men is two meteorite-affected freaks who both tried to kill me, I'm hardly mentally equipped to handle a smooth man as this, whose intentions are not homicidal. I think.  
  
Idly, he reaches out and tucks a (one of) wayward lock of hair behind my ear.  
  
"Why?" I say dumbly.  
  
He smirks. "Because I read the Handbook on Chivalrous Dating Methods."  
  
I feel myself melting, even as he speaks. Luckily, I keep my mind in check with subtle reminders (wake up Chloe wake up Chloe) to my physical being to help me out of dire situations such as these when I'm a second away to losing myself totally and surrendering my body to him for his personal use.  
  
Remembering myself, "You know I'm still very annoyed with you." (Way to go, Chloe. Couldn't sound like more of a dumb ass could you?)  
  
He shrugs. "You're entitled to be annoyed with me." Then he looks at me (God he has nice eyes). "But I am sorry."  
  
I hate that look. The smoldering gaze that brings forth all sorts of visions to the mind, including a very vivid one right now that involves me grabbing his collar and hauling him under the buffet table.  
  
I shake my head to clear it. When that doesn't work, I grab a napkin and start wiping my punch spotted hand. When I feel some kind of common sense flying back into my brain, I glance at him.  
  
He's looking at me with an odd expression on his face.  
  
A really, REALLY odd expression on his face.  
  
Or maybe it's not an odd expression, on anyone else's face. But since I associate Lex Luthor with dry smiles, smirks and glares, the expression seems so casual that it's like a friendly foreigner being lost in a very impolite country.  
  
I mean, what IS that? Is that a smile?  
  
And why is he watching me wipe my hand like it's the most extraordinary thing in the world?  
  
The answer comes to me in a flash. A white, blinding, raging and indignant flash.  
  
"Lex Luthor are you DRUNK?"  
  
  
  
LEX  
  
I blinked. That might not have been the smartest response in the world.  
  
But in consideration to my sudden disability to utter a word, blinking was the only response I could muster. Somehow or other my usually extensive comprehension of the English language decided to fail me at a crucial moment, and I try to grasp the mechanics as I understand them.  
  
This is easy for me. This has always been easy for me. I could smooth things over in a heartbeat. I've had enough practice with several angered clients to deem myself properly prepared for situations such as these.  
  
However, I feel the defense mechanism rising up, a totally human and absolutely incorrect thing to do in times like these, "Me? Drunk? NO."  
  
Way to go, Lex. There's an outstanding line of reasoning if ever I heard one.  
  
In any case, were there any semblances of my formerly drunk state in my blood in the first place, it would have been wiped clean at the shock of her accusation. That should be a comfort to her, since my presence is most definitely not.  
  
And I'm not drunk. Maybe slightly affected (surely the alcohol must have had some effect for me to actually come to this Godforsaken place) but certainly not drunk.  
  
"Alright," Chloe says, exhaling slowly. "Walk in a straight line."  
  
What does she think this is? A roadblock? "I don't think that's necessary, Chloe. I'm not drunk."  
  
She leans forward and sniffs loudly. Something that could be considered as endearing if I was not holding in my alcohol-stained breath during the process. She snaps back with an indignant gasp before saying accusingly, "I smell alcohol on you!"  
  
"That's because I drank some."  
  
"You drank before you came here??"  
  
No, I came here because I drank. But I'm not about to point that out to her. I decide to give her another reminder, "I'm twenty-one, Chloe. Trust me, it's legal."  
  
She sighs loudly and throws her hands up in the air. "God, what a joke! Have a DATE, have TWO dates, have one DITCH me, have ANOTHER ditch me, have my hair RUINED, my DRESS ruined, have a date who's been DRINKING, have…" I lost her somewhere after that. As Clark has once explained to me, the Chloe Rant is a movement one can only grasp in excerpts, not fully comprehend.  
  
Failing to see how my drinking three lousy shots of Scotch could effect her deeply enough for her to start ranting, I interrupt her, "Chloe. What's the problem?"  
  
"It's the suckiest evening of my life." The girl obviously has no concern over my ego. "It's just everything on top of the other and I'm just so tired and I look like crap and it's just, not what I imagined everything to be."  
  
I can feel her disappointment, but I've had distinctively worse disappointments in my life for me to feel absolute pity for her. But despite my being an asshole, I am attracted to her, and that allows a bit of commiseration. "Nothing usually is."  
  
"I wanted tonight to be different," she says irritably. Teenagers.  
  
Knowing that she'll just dismiss all attempts to soothe, I suggest, "If you're really sick of this place, why don't we go somewhere else?"  
  
I remember all the seductive looks. I don't know if it's my looks, or my charm, or my personality, or my money, but every single time I've said that line to a woman, the outcomes are all similar. Shyly seductive, slyly seductive, or outright seductive, there's never been a girl to question my motive, in all due respect because there's no other motive to question. It's a cheesy line, but it's effective, and I love efficiency.  
  
But I've never had a girl cross her arms and look at me with frank suspicion.  
  
"Why?"  
  
I'll just ignore that question. "We could get a cup of coffee and talk."  
  
She narrows her eyes at me. "Talk?"  
  
"Talk."  
  
"Why?"  
  
I cannot fathom how it is that I've managed to sell buildings at overcharged prices to cunning businessmen and yet I can't talk this girl into having coffee with me.  
  
She looks at me expectantly.  
  
"It seems like a better alternative than seeing you miserable here."  
  
For a reason very unknown to me, she thinks hard about what I said. I watch her face screw up in what looks like intense concentration for a full minute before I see a spark in her eyes, and looking very satisfied at her decision, she turns to me.  
  
"Actually that's a GREAT idea," she declares.  
  
Now it's a great idea.  
  
"I can interview you in absolute peace there."  
  
Oh, fuck.  
  
"But," she says.  
  
Unlike the situation in her kitchen two days previous to this doomed evening, every single blood cell in my body seems to perk up at the sound of that 'but'. And I never perk up. "But?"  
  
"This IS the Prom," she continues. Her face screws up at the memory of another fact, "And I'm supposed to be covering this for the paper."  
  
"Two subjects for the paper in one night. Very ambitious."  
  
"I try," she says grinning, at a very false attempt at modesty. Then seemingly remembering that she's supposed to be annoyed with me, she scowls at me. "Plus I haven't even danced yet. And where's Clark?"  
  
I'm unsure as to whether it's irritation, envy, hurt or a little bit of everything that I feel at the mention of Clark's name, but it stings everywhere. I feel a raging temptation to remind her that I'm right in front of her, a willing body for her to dance with, so she doesn't have to be on the lookout for Clark all the fucking time.  
  
Luckily, I don't yield to temptation. But bitterness allows me a bit of deception, "I haven't seen him." And then, with a slight curiosity to see her reaction, I add, "I'll dance with you."  
  
She looks at me from head to toe in a manner that suggests that she's sizing up my dancing skills from my physique, and the doubtful look on her face suggests that the outcome looks disappointing.  
  
"It's my favorite song," I add. Whatever this awful crap may be.  
  
Her eyebrows shoot to the sky. "You like Mariah Carey?"  
  
"Sure I do."  
  
"Huh."  
  
I am not the most patient man in the world. It's a rich boy's syndrome, the disability to be patient because there's never been a reason in your life to cause you to wait. I'm accustomed to getting things I want because I want it, and for all the wheeling and dealing I have gone through during my time as a businessman, I've only just appreciated the novelty of getting something I want because I worked hard for it.  
  
In Chloe's case, I've tried hard enough. I would only go so far to demean myself and belittle my ego, particularly in the knowledge that I've never reduced myself to doing such things before. And I'm beginning to resent the fact that she has managed to take me as far as pretending that I like one of Mariah Carey's songs.  
  
"Do you or do you not want to dance?" I ask shortly.  
  
She tries my patience for another minute, pondering openly on the simple proposal I have given her, before she shrugs, "Just don't cramp my style."  
  
"I wouldn't dream of it," I extend my hand out to her.  
  
She takes my hand, and for all the shit that she's given me, I've started reveling at the feel of her small palm in mine. Dragging my eyes away from the hand in mine, I notice her observing me.  
  
"Why Lex Luthor, I do believe you're nervous," she says in mock coyness, before she flashes a grin at me, momentarily knocking me off balance.  
  
Nervous? I lead her towards the dance floor. Luthors don't get nervous. They get stressed; the predictable and every day kind of stress that can be taken away with a capsule of Valium or a round of pool or a very good book. Nervous? Rapid heartbeats, clammy hands and the disability to speak properly – those are normal people symptoms. My self-confidence doesn't allow me to be nervous and my whole blood system forbids the repulsive thought.  
  
But when she slips an arm around my waist and entwines her fingers with mine, the fabric of her dress making slight contact with my stomach, feeling her closeness and feeling heady from the sensation, then I begin to realize that maybe I am, slightly, nervous.  
  
It's a nice feeling. 


	15. The Moment

CHLOE  
  
Oh, I started out fine.  
  
Okay, I'm not going to totally dismiss the nerve-wracking grip in my chest area that came when he offered to dance with me, but I managed to handle that just fine, thanks very much. I was positively cool, calm and collected, as if that punch held a mysterious ingredient something other than alcohol that instilled coolness in me (something I've been a bit clueless about, to be honest). I even managed to tease him about it, and to top it all off, he looked more nervous than I did.  
  
Imagine that, Lex Luthor nervous about dancing with me. Huh. Probably thinks I'll cramp his style. Or step on his toes. Huh.  
  
Anyway. It only meant one thing. The ball was in my court (of course, the fact that I'm sober meant that the ball was already in my court, but anyway). I was in charge here. I was in control.  
  
Unfortunately, at the point in time when I thought I was in control, he drew me close and I forgot how to breathe.  
  
I have to remind myself of the mechanics: in through the nose, out through the mouth, inhale pink, exhale blue.  
  
But in all due consideration, you have to understand where I'm coming from. I mean, I have never been drawn close before! Yes, I've been hugged. Yes, I've been kissed. Sure, I've been hugged AND kissed. But I have never had an arm encircling itself around my waist and slowly drawing my body close enough so that my stomach brushes across the belt of his trousers and all I can smell is that cologne circling itself around my head and screwing up my senses.. and for that someone to be LEX LUTHOR???  
  
Oh yeah, there's a big difference between THAT and being hugged and kissed by ordinary guys (well, they were actually both mutants, and I didn't get to kiss the other one, which is good considering he would have sucked the body warmth out of me, but anyway).  
  
We all know that one of the reasons why the idea of going to the Prom with Lex Luthor seemed so enthralling was not only because of the interview or the fact that I actually HAD a Prom date, it was the fact that I was going with Lex Luthor. And no one imagines the weird Chloe Sullivan nabbing an enigma like Lex Luthor (even if it WAS out of charity, but no one needs to know that). And definitely no one can imagine Chloe Sullivan DANCING with Lex Luthor.  
  
That was supposed to be the cherry on top. Dancing with him. Confirming everyone's suspicion that yes, Chloe is at the Prom with Lex Luthor, and no, it doesn't seem like he was arm-wrestled into it.  
  
I was SUPPOSED to be smug and fully enjoying the shell-shocked look on my schoolmate's faces.  
  
I didn't think that everyone around me, even the music, would fade out into a non-existent blur.  
  
And I certainly didn't think that I would feel like we are the only two people in the room.  
  
Nope, THAT I didn't expect.  
  
LEX  
  
There are just too many goddamn teenagers in here.  
  
Being enclosed in a gym with teenagers to the left, right and center of me was the one thing that I was glad to leave behind when I graduated, amongst other things. Why I had to befriend one to get me into such a situation is, at this present moment in time, beyond human comprehension.  
  
Certainly I am far from forgetting the teenager who circles with me in my arms, in the middle of this mangy gym in the middle of this crappy song. Yet I feel like this would be a pleasurable act if there were no flies flying into the mouths of teenagers within viewing distance of us.  
  
And this is only a Prom. Imagine if I took Chloe elsewhere. To one of the many boring social events that I am so compelled to attend. I'm sure that Chloe would make a delightful intrusion in the doldrums of socialite events, but would jaws drop at the sight of us dancing? It's a surety.  
  
She's so young.  
  
Not only in the matters of age, because I believe that a child of fourteen could hold more wisdom than a man of forty-eight, but she's young in every other way. We might differ in five years in terms of age, but in terms of experience I might just have a twenty-year head start.  
  
One might wonder why I'm dwelling on such things when I should, in fact, concentrate on the moment at hand. If truth be told, maybe it's high time that I learn to release myself and fully enjoy a moment, instead of shooting doses of reality into my brain. But those doses of reality are imperative at the moment.  
  
Particularly when the moment at hand is making me feel an effect somewhat similar to drowning. When I do concentrate on the moment at hand, I feel less solid like I should be, looking down and finding Chloe's blue eyes clamped on my face with no discernable hint of what she may be thinking or feeling. I have a horrifying feeling that the sudden liquidation in my bones is a result of a weakness in my knees, and no, that is never a good thing.  
  
I look down into her eyes and she looks unflinchingly back, almost curiously, almost bashfully, almost uncertainly, and all I can smell is that apple scent rubbed onto her skin, and the combination of which makes me almost heady in rhapsody.  
  
And here I am, a person who judges people by the strength of their stares, and I can't seem to hold my gaze for five seconds. Which is, in a quick recap of all my past stare downs with more intimidating people, pretty damn funny.  
  
Hilarious. Ironic. Ridiculous.  
  
Oh, fuck.  
  
Which is why it's imperative to keep my eyes focused elsewhere.  
  
"Lex?"  
  
Her voice is uncharacteristically soft, and it seems to add to the surrealism.  
  
"Yes?" I have no choice, I glance back down at her.  
  
"Is everything okay?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"You seem kind of. I don't know. Out of it."  
  
"No."  
  
"So you're okay?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Right," she looks at me oddly. Can't say I blame her. "I mean, we can stop dancing if you want to."  
  
"No," the words are too quick out of my mouth. Dammit, Luthor. Get a grip.  
  
"If you're sure."  
  
"YES," exasperation etches my voice. She looks at me archly.  
  
"God, I was just asking," she replies, the normal sardonic tone inching its way back into her voice and I feel a kind of relief.  
  
"Let's just keep dancing," I tell her, drawing her close to me again. "And not talk."  
  
"Shouldn't you talk when you dance though? I mean, isn't it awkward if you just stare at each other throughout one song? And this is a pretty long song, you know. About five minutes."  
  
"So let's not stare at each other."  
  
"Huh," she says, but seems complying enough. We unconsciously move into a different position where she's not craning her neck to look up at me, instead she rests her cheek against my shoulder.  
  
I'm free from her eyes.  
  
But her breath against my neck and a hardness elsewhere is telling me that this position also has its drawbacks.  
  
CHLOE  
  
Yeah, this is definitely better. More comfortable. Lex has nice broad shoulders, and his tuxedo is definitely of a more expensive material than cotton so that has its advantages too.  
  
GOD, he smells nice. In a position where my nose is within close proximity to his neck means that it is one intrusion from my sanity that I cannot escape from. But I'll die trying.  
  
Remember the breathing mechanics, I concentrate on the task at hand. Not stepping on his toes seems like a good thing to focus on. Unfortunately though, he's a better dancer than I would have thought and sidestepping my toes doesn't seem to be much of a problem to him.  
  
Surely, I can concentrate on other things! Like the lyrics of the song that's playing. God, what song is this?  
  
Breathe, Chloe, breathe.  
  
Except that I feel his breath against my forehead now and it's making it harder for me.  
  
He shifts. Or maybe it's just his head that moves. We've been dancing in a comatose stance for a few minutes now (feels more like a year) but the slight movement jolts my nerves. When nothing happens, I almost laugh at myself.  
  
God, Chloe. You NUT. Get a grip, you idiot. He's just a man.  
  
Then instead of his breath, I feel two lips brushing lightly against my forehead. And then there's a sudden motion of his chest that shows an unmistakable intake of breath, which seems to indicate only one thing.  
  
He has taken a sniff of my hair and I think he likes it.  
  
Except now I'm hoping that he's not smelling too much of it, because if he goes deeper then he'll smell the hairspray that has been vainly holding my hair up. Or worse, maybe by some unforeseen force of misfortune, the smell of Clark's truck would probably have latched itself onto my hair.  
  
Clark.  
  
Wonder where he is?  
  
But I have to concentrate on the problem of the moment i.e. getting my hair as far away from Lex Luthor's nose as is humanly possible. I gently extract my head away from his head and look up at him.  
  
Just as I look up at him, he looks down at me.  
  
And I'm suddenly aware of how very close our faces are. So close, in fact, that I feel a slight brush on the tip of my nose, from the tip of his nose.  
  
I stop breathing altogether. Lex, on the other hand, seems to be breathing harder.  
  
He looks at me, but not in that searching way he usually does when it seems like he's trying to pick your brain out for meteorite information. No, he seems to be looking at me more differently right now, but I can't seem to pinpoint it.  
  
And, in another galaxy far, far away, I'm thinking of how even from this close distance I still can't determine what color his eyes are.  
  
But the giddiness of feeling Lex's breath on my face gives way to a more nerve-wrenching realization.  
  
Which is: Oh my God, I think he's going to kiss me.  
  
And close after: Oh my God, I think I'm going to let him.  
  
And comes the moment: that split second where everything has faded away into nothingness, and the only thing you see is the man in front of you cocking his head to one side, staring at your mouth like it's a destination, and leaning into you.  
  
And then you close your eyes and lean forward to receive him.  
  
At that split second where I, we, should be oblivious to nothing else.  
  
Then a voice says, "Hey, Lex!" 


	16. The Awkward Triangle

Author's Note: Right, I am truly sorry that it took me so long to update these last two chapters. I have a very good reason for it, but I'm not going to bore anyone, so, just hope you forgive me and enjoy the rest of the chapters. I promise to try and be a lot more prompt :)  
  
With the risk of sounding sappy, I gotta thank everyone for the lovely reviews.  
  
Oh, and big thanks to Beautiful N' Bruised for taking the time out to check up on me :)  
  
* * * * *  
  
CLARK  
  
I found Lana at the football field.  
  
When I saw her, I slowed my pace down to an easy walk, although it was with a mixed presence of mind and a rapidly beating heart that I approached her. It surprised me, somewhat, that I could find her so easily. It gave me some effort to find Chloe, yet it's never that hard for me to find Lana.  
  
I don't really want to question that right now.  
  
She heard me approach before I could say anything, whipping her head around with a little gasp, which soon gave way to a sigh of relief. "It's you, Clark."  
  
Who else could it have been? Hasn't it ALWAYS been me?  
  
"It's me," I confirm, taking my place next to her. Although I would rather focus my eyes on her, she seems quite content in staring at the sky above, and I feel that I should be content in doing that too, even if the view down here is miles more spectacular than that up there.  
  
"The night is so beautiful, Clark," she says with a small sigh.  
  
I silently agree.  
  
"Ever wonder what's up there?" she continues. When I glance at her, she has an impish little smile on her face. "Maybe there's something beyond there. Something amazing. Something different." She pauses, and adds, almost to herself, "Something better than this."  
  
"I wonder all the time," I reply, in all honesty.  
  
"Ever wish you were there instead of here?" she says, ruefully.  
  
I look down at her, her face upturned towards the sky, the moonlight dancing on her skin. "No, never."  
  
"It's wonderful to be so content, Clark."  
  
"Sometimes you just have to appreciate what you have."  
  
She's silent. When I look down at her again, I find that she's the one staring at me this time, curiosity on her face.  
  
"Sometimes I wish I were like you, Clark," she says. "Not letting anything get me down."  
  
Not letting anything get me down? If I did, then I would either be homicidal or suicidal, both ways not very advisable hobbies to get into.  
  
She wishes she were like me. Not WITH me. Like me.  
  
"Are you okay?"  
  
She shrugs. "I guess I am. Just another spat, right?" I refuse to comment. "But why he wants to get into one in front of the whole world is just beyond me."  
  
Why she wastes her time with him is beyond me too.  
  
"It's gonna be a little awkward winning Prom Queen when the Prom King has gone AWOL."  
  
She smiles at this. "What makes you think I'll even get titled Prom Queen, Clark?"  
  
"A little bird told me."  
  
She laughs a long, delighted laugh. "Well if I do, I guess I could always slow dance by myself on the dance floor," she says with a wry smile.  
  
"Well hey, if there are no other candidates lined up," I say, looking down at her. "I'll be honored to dance with you."  
  
She smiles up at me. "You would? Thanks, Clark."  
  
I smile back at her, and instead of breaking her gaze away from me as she normally does when our looks get just a bit this side of intense, she keeps her eyes on me.  
  
I feel like the whole football field is charging with electricity. Through my mind run a million thoughts: should I kiss her? Would she let me kiss her? Does she want me to?  
  
But no, I just stand still. Why? Maybe I'm just not good at these things. Maybe I don't want to be a reason why Lana and Whitney break up. Maybe I'm just not sure of her feelings for me yet.  
  
Maybe I'm just chicken.  
  
Lana breaks her gaze from me and looks down at her hands.  
  
"I think I'd rather be left alone right now, Clark."  
  
I sigh. Of course she does.  
  
"Well, you know, just make sure you're there when they announce you Prom Queen."  
  
She smiles at this. "Just make sure you're there when I don't have a Prom King to dance with."  
  
"I promise if you promise."  
  
"I promise."  
  
"Great," I grin at her, and she laughs at the exuberance in my face.  
  
It's when I reach the gym that my carefree cavalier attitude of saving damsels in distress starts to break down when I suddenly remember that I'm only good at superhero activities - not dancing.  
  
Which is why it's urgent for me right now to find Chloe and get some practice moves in case I actually do have to go up on my word and dance with Lana. On the gym floor. In front of everybody and his brother to see what a lousy dancer I am.  
  
I find her easily this time. Not a lot of people have a bald man in their company tonight.  
  
From far I see her dancing with Lex.  
  
Watching the two of them dance, I feel strangely uplifted. I'm thankful, more than anything else. Thankful of how an evening with such potential disasters has managed to turn out, if not perfect, at least okay.  
  
I feel especially thankful to Lex for bearing with the evening's quirks and inconsistencies like he has. And topping it all off by dancing with Chloe? He deserves a huge gold star for his efforts, and for being such a great friend tonight.  
  
I'm buying him the biggest steak sandwich at the Talon for this.  
  
I call out, a spring in my step and a grin on my face, "Hey, Lex!" and then stop when I'm hit with a realization.  
  
They didn't look like they were dancing. In fact, or my eyes could be deceiving me (although they never have before), it looked like they were about to kiss.  
  
At the sound of my voice, they jump apart from each other, and that confirms my suspicions.  
  
  
  
LEX  
  
Crap.  
  
"Clark!" That came from Chloe, a little too cheerful for my liking.  
  
Clark walks up to us, eyes blue and darting from Chloe's face to mine in split seconds, as if trying to make a quick judgement or to ascertain what is already a certainty. He really doesn't have to bother, I could tell him quite easily.  
  
Yes, Chloe and I were about to kiss, and yes, you ruined it.  
  
"Hey, guys," he says, kind of unsteadily, kind of suspiciously, kind of confused.  
  
Since Chloe seems eager enough to act like the guilty wife caught of almost kissing her husband's best friend, I let her do all the talking. "Hey, Clark!" she replies, brightly.  
  
"I was going to ask." he's very confused now. I see him battling with his brain, wondering if he should be angry when he has no good reason for it. I watch him struggling with indecision with a mixture of amusement and annoyance, "I was going to ask if I could cut in."  
  
He looks at me, or to be more apt about it, he stares hard at me.  
  
"Be my guest," I reply. I glance at Chloe just as she looks away from me.  
  
The three of us stand in an awkward triangle, Clark's eyes still darting from Chloe to me, Chloe's eyes fixed on her shoes, my eyes fixed on Chloe. The tension in the air between us is so thick, but despite how I might have felt earlier in regards to Clark's esteem of me, right now I can't seem to give a shit whether or not he hates me.  
  
And I'm standing here, irrevocably and irrationally vexed at the two of them.  
  
But then, I have to wonder what it is that's really pissing me off.  
  
Is it the fact that Clark interrupted us? No, I suppose that's more to do with frustration.  
  
Is it Clark himself? Probably. The self-righteous attitude never worked well on me. If he's angry at me for showing Chloe a little too much attention, then maybe he should have showed a little more attention to Chloe first. I refuse to be an object of scrutiny under those conditions.  
  
Is it Chloe? I have to pause and think about that. We could be kissing right now. We could be exchanging breaths, heartbeats, air, a little bit of our souls, or just plain venting out our evening's frustrations on each other and it would have been, there was a promise that it would have been, absolutely amazing.  
  
How does she feel about that? I understand the sudden awkwardness of the situation that would keep her eyes away from my face. Yes, I AM human, after all.  
  
But why the fuck is she acting so guilty about it?  
  
It's amazing that I even have to wonder. Does Chloe not have that neon sign flashing above her head: 'Made Available For Clark Kent At All Times'?  
  
And with this comes another gut-crunching thought: maybe I'm not angry. Maybe my pride has been wounded. Or maybe something else has been wounded, because all I feel right now is self-pitying HURT, and I cannot stand for that.  
  
I'm beginning to realize what a huge waste of time this is.  
  
  
  
CHLOE  
  
Lex's voice forces my gaze away from my shoes and onto his face.  
  
"I'm leaving."  
  
When I look up at him, he's staring at me, with an almost triumphant, self- satisfied look, the kind that is usually at home with his face but has gone absent for the past few hour.  
  
I try to say something, but for some reason, I can't.  
  
I hear Clark's voice, "You're leaving?"  
  
"Yes," he replies. "I think I've been exposed to too many teenagers tonight. It makes me lose my insanity."  
  
I wince, as if those words were aimed at me in the form of piercing arrows.  
  
Clark doesn't seem to know what to say. Or maybe he does say something, because I hear another voice somewhere to the right of me, and Lex responds, "I'll see you tomorrow, Clark."  
  
He says to me, "Have a nice evening, Chloe."  
  
I want to say, "Don't leave," but I can't. At this point in time, I'm not sure if I DON'T want him to leave. His presence seems to be screwing up my senses at the moment, and I think I might be relieved to find him gone.  
  
Yet at the same time, I don't WANT him to leave.  
  
Instead of saying so, I nod.  
  
As if that was the answer he was waiting for, Lex abruptly turns and leaves the gym floor wordlessly, no last good-byes from either Clark or I, which is just another proof to the evidence that tonight has gone way past normal Smallville weirdness. But unlike a few seconds ago when the sudden appearance of Clark was a heart-stopping shock to bring me down to an early grave, I couldn't stop looking at him. My eyes stay on his back, follow him through the throngs of students, until he's out of view.  
  
I glance at Clark, whose face is expressionless, but the fact that he didn't ask Lex to stay tells me, as he would have normally done, that maybe he's a bit irked at him.  
  
But why? What's wrong with Lex and I kissing? Okay, maybe there ARE a million things wrong with it, but maybe to my father's eyes or Mr. Luthor's eyes or someone else's eyes but what wrong would it make in Clark's eyes?  
  
It's not like he was taking advantage of me. Dammit. I WANTED to kiss him.  
  
Crap. I really did want to kiss him.  
  
He looked like a damn good kisser too.  
  
Clark gives me a tight smile and gestures his arm out to me. "Wanna dance?"  
  
I step into his arms and force myself to be happy, to be content with the fact that I am here tonight, in the gym, dancing in Clark's arms, like I've been dreaming about for so many nights prior to this moment when it has actually come true.  
  
Can't I just, at least, ENJOY this moment?  
  
The rigid way Clark holds his shoulders isn't helping me out in that department. I know he's dying to say something. I can feel it. He's just dying to ask me what happened. He's probably still trying to figure out whether or not he should be angry about it.  
  
But why the hell should he? Does he play such a big part in my life for him to be affected every time I choose to kiss someone other than him?  
  
Then, dammit, he should have made himself a bigger part of my life before this. That's HIS mistake, not mine.  
  
But Clark and I aren't best friends for nothing, and he seems to sense something stirring in me.  
  
"What's wrong?" he asks, and he sounds concerned.  
  
I reply honestly, "I don't think I wanted Lex to leave."  
  
It makes me feel so much better. 


	17. The Decision

CHLOE  
  
My last statement is still hanging in the air, waiting for Clark to stop blinking at me and for him to say something already.  
  
He does, after an eternity. "What?"  
  
My jittery nerves and the butterflies at war in my stomach are making me restless and a lot more impatient than I usually am. I fight down the annoyance and repeat again: "I don't think I wanted Lex to leave."  
  
"I heard you the first time, Chloe," he says. Huh. "Why?"  
  
"Why what?"  
  
"Why didn't you want Lex to leave?"  
  
I really don't know what to say to that. I could always be honest and say, "Well, you see Clark, there's the glitch. I'm not really sure why yet! Give me a couple of days and I'll have it theorized on paper." Unfortunately I doubt that would satisfy him.  
  
But well, it's not like my clueless state is satisfying me either, so he'll have to be satisfied with: "I don't know."  
  
"That's not an answer."  
  
"Sorry, I can't come up with one yet."  
  
"Chloe," he gives me a serious, pleading look. "Don't joke about this."  
  
"Clark, I'm NOT JOKING," the frustrated agitation in my voice forces his head back. "I don't know why I didn't want him to leave, okay? I mean, I have a general idea. Maybe. But it's a bit weird, even for me, and probably for you. I don't know if I can voice out something that I'm not sure about when it's such a big deal. I don't even know if it's a big deal! I mean, seriously, probably it is. But thinking about it like this it doesn't SEEM so. But I guess it is. I don't know. I mean, I've got to come to grips-"  
  
He cuts me off, "Just tell me what the general idea is, Chloe."  
  
I sigh and look up into his eyes. His big, lovely blue eyes, I've committed its reflections to different moods to memory. They are almost dark right now, and they penetrate my eyes with the apparent seriousness of the situation, and I find myself thinking that if I can just look up into these eyes that I love so much, and just say it, then it has to be true.  
  
"The general idea," I exhale slowly. Clark's eyes turn almost desperate, and I'm struck with the thought of how this could affect him, and why this would affect him. I've dreamed of this moment, I'm not a Grade A Bitch for no reason. I've dreamed of breaking Clark's heart, of telling him that I don't need him anymore because of the idea of someone else.  
  
I've dreamed of it, but I never once thought of it up until this moment.  
  
"Clark," I say, biding time because I don't know how to say it, how to put complicated feelings into words. "I like him. Perhaps a little bit more than I should."  
  
It's his turn to exhale slowly now, while I breathe a sigh of relief. God. It's feels like a huge load off my back. It makes me wonder why I couldn't have just admitted to it sooner - it would have saved me a truckload of headaches.  
  
Clark lets go of me, almost absently.  
  
"I don't know what to say," he says.  
  
It's funny. It's funny how many times Clark has unknowingly broken my heart by his obsession with Lana, and now that my cosmic comeuppance has FINALLY come for just a bit of feel-good vengeance, all I can feel at this moment is pity.  
  
I mean it, I feel sorry for him.  
  
God, what kind of fool am I?  
  
"I didn't figure bald men to be your type?" I suggest.  
  
"Well, honestly, I didn't."  
  
"Honestly, neither did I."  
  
Clark looks almost annoyed at me, though not half as annoyed at him as I must have looked two hours ago, but then I'm just overly dramatic by nature. "This is just too weird, Chloe."  
  
I'm inclined to agree there.  
  
"And you almost kissed! In front of EVERYBODY."  
  
He sounds almost ashamed, and now I'm confused because shouldn't wearing the Crown of Shame be MY job? I feel an oddly rebellious defense mechanism towards this and at the tone of his voice, I have the sudden need to diss Clark down so bad and automatically arm myself for combat.  
  
Seriously though, why should I be ashamed? It's not like we were acting out a porn scene on the dance floor. It was a kiss! And hell, it wasn't even that.  
  
"Well, yeah, but when you get caught up in a moment you don't really think of everybody. And when did you start caring about what EVERYBODY thought?"  
  
"Since you decided that you have feelings for Lex Luthor! Jeez, Chloe-"  
  
I cut him off. "What's wrong with having feelings for Lex Luthor?" I demand, although all things considered, it's a pretty moot question.  
  
"EVERYTHING'S WRONG WITH IT." He almost screams at my face, enough for me to back down a step, but not enough to make me back down, period.  
  
"Clark! I swear you're acting crazy. He's your best friend! How can you, of ALL PEOPLE in the world, YOU, say that my having feelings for him can be wrong?"  
  
"Because it is! Dammit, Chloe. I like the guy a lot and yeah, I gotta admit he's one of my best friends, but he's not someone that you have a relationship with!"  
  
I blink at him and the sudden realization that I'm not the only reigning Drama Queen here. "Clark, we almost kissed. Almost. And that's subjective. If you didn't stop us, something else might have. Him changing his mind, probably. Or him sobering up. I don't know. But it didn't happen. And already in your mind we're involved in a relationship? JEEZ."  
  
"It could happen," he says petulantly.  
  
"It could just as easily not," I reply back, and all things rebellion flew out of me in a sudden and exhausting swoop. That's exactly right, what I said. Whatever was there- and I'm sure there was SOMETHING there- has gone. It went with Clark calling Lex, with my face glued to my shoes and Lex having had enough.  
  
Would a second chance at kiss be possible? I seriously doubt it. The first time was hard enough. Let's not forget to mention the fact that the Luthors are famous for their self-satisfied pride. Would Lex really bother giving me a chance after all of this?  
  
Okay, let's rewind there. Would Lex have given me a chance at all? I mean, we almost kissed yeah, but it was just a moment, right? Happens all time, right? I mean, it wouldn't necessarily mean that he had feelings for me. Right?  
  
I do annoy him a lot.  
  
"What are you thinking about?" asks Clark, peering at me curiously.  
  
"Nothing," I say automatically. Then changed my mind, "Okay. When you think of Lex and I in a relationship, is it totally a scene out of your active imagination or do you truly think that there's something there?"  
  
Clark groans loudly. "Chloe."  
  
"No, seriously! Hypothetically. Or metaphorically. Whatever. What do you think?"  
  
"Didn't I just TELL you being in a relationship with him is a bad idea? Now you want me to ENCOURAGE you?!" He looks about ready to throttle me. Luckily, I know Clark well enough to know that that look on his face means that he's open to just a little bit more needling.  
  
"So you think that by encouraging me I'm in DANGER of having a relationship with Lex? Because of the MUTUAL feelings that reside there or because of that little-ALMOST kiss that was probably induced by him taking too much alcohol?"  
  
"Chloe."  
  
"Honestly, if it's the latter, I don't see much danger in that at all."  
  
"CHLOE."  
  
I look up at him.  
  
"I'm more worried that he'd break your heart."  
  
I sigh loudly, glancing at the gym doors through which he left a few minutes ago.  
  
I remember my reluctance to dance with him a few minutes before then.  
  
Cross-examining the level of alcohol in his blood.  
  
Yelling at him over the phone an hour before that.  
  
The sarcasm in my words at the Beanery the night before.  
  
His proposition the day before.  
  
The horror on his face when I said I wanted an interview in exchange.  
  
The annoyance on his face when left outside my house for a few measly minutes.  
  
"Yeah well, I'm afraid I've already done that for him," I tell Clark. He looks at me questioningly, but at this point in time, I'm beyond caring whether or not Clark understands something that I haven't really come to grips with. Moving off of the dance floor, I search and locate the nearest seat, settling into it with a sigh.  
  
Suddenly, I just can't STOP THINKING ABOUT LEX LUTHOR.  
  
His face.  
  
Whether his eyes are blue or green.  
  
How he reached for my hands and asked me to go to the Prom with him.  
  
Black leather jacket at the Beanery.  
  
Calling me beautiful.  
  
How he always manages to retort to any of my killer sarcastic one-liners.  
  
Calling me to tell me he'll be late.  
  
How nice it is, when I actually think about it, that he would agree to go to the Prom with me, pity or not.  
  
Dancing with me.  
  
Replying in monosyllabic answers to piss me off (I'm sure of it).  
  
Long legs appear in front of me. I look up to see Clark looking down at me uncertainly.  
  
"Are you okay?"  
  
No. "Yeah." Then, "Tell me honestly, Clark. Let's say I do have feelings for Lex. Would it really bother you that much?"  
  
"Would it matter?" he says, wryly.  
  
"It actually would. You ARE my best friend."  
  
"Chloe," he says, annoyance in his voice. Then, "Yes, it would bother me."  
  
Seriously, it was a rhetorical question. Why did I even bother asking? If only to pain me just a tad bit more. But then I'm a sucker for punishment - one of the highest forms of punishment is having feelings for a very detached playboy millionaire who's more accustomed to the likes of polished women in his company.  
  
'Polished women' is definitely not a category I fall under.  
  
Curiosity (and a possibility that maybe the punch WAS spiked) makes me ask the next question: "Would it bother you if it was any man other than Lex Luthor?"  
  
He doesn't reply immediately, but his face betrays the answer. Instant blushing of cheeks, the disability to meet my eyes, and mumbling, "Er, well, um, no. No it wouldn't bother me. I guess. I don't know."  
  
Huh.  
  
Should I be happy about this? Two days ago maybe. A lot has changed since then.  
  
A whole lot, I muse, looking up at Clark's adorable face and realizing for the first time in a long time, that he is not the man I want to be with tonight.  
  
Do you REALLY need everyone's approval to live your own life?  
  
Isn't anything worth trying at least once?  
  
Besides, doesn't he owe me an interview?  
  
In the more sane and normal world, Lana Lang has just been announced Prom Queen. Clark snaps to attention, and I make my decision.  
  
LEX  
  
For all of its God awful coffee and equally God awful service, the Talon offers me serenity this particularly chaotic evening.  
  
I'm uncertain as to what it is that made me decide to sit in the Talon rather than going home to start the alcohol healing process. Perhaps I've gotten tired of my house- the expensive furniture only serves as decoration, and goes nowhere close to soothing the mind.  
  
I didn't choose the Beanery because embarrassingly enough it reminds me of Chloe.  
  
What kind of pathetic life form does that make me, I wonder? Choosing crap coffee over good coffee because of a memory.  
  
Undoubtedly pathetic.  
  
Exceedingly sad.  
  
Not someone I would want to acquaint myself with.  
  
The very thought makes me want to desert my current activity of staring a hole into the table in front of me, and go to the Beanery just to prove something to myself, but even THAT thought deems me pathetic.  
  
A teenager has made a pathetic man out of me.  
  
Oh yes, I blame her absolutely and totally for this mess. With the exception of Clark, whose bright idea started this fucking crusade of charity and good will toward teenagers in the first place.  
  
Of course, I was also out of my fucking mind to agree. I assume that part of the blame.  
  
Teenagers cannot make their minds up.  
  
Teenagers have not a fucking clue.  
  
Teenagers have the unknowing ability to screw your mind over. They're mindless of this fact, and it's this mindlessness that has you screwed.  
  
Particularly blonde teenagers.  
  
Figuratively speaking, what is so damn great about Clark Kent that disables her from the thought of the possibility of other men? Admittedly, there is a probability that he is better than 90% of the men in the world (let's face it, Clark Kent is a bona fide Wonder Boy, in possibly all aspects of the word), and that includes me.  
  
But I do have something over Clark Kent. I'm not blind and I'm certainly not ignorant.  
  
Yes, I know we must all do our bit to save the world while watching precariously over Lana Lang's fragile heart, but how does one manage to ignore the ever obvious feelings of the blonde girl in front of you?  
  
With very little heart or an abundance of ignorance.  
  
Knowing Clark as well as I do, I assume it's the latter.  
  
Why am I even thinking about this? Did I not verify that this was a complete waste of my time?  
  
My phone rings and I'm welcomed by the non-welcoming sight of my father's name on the screen.  
  
Resigned to my fate while understanding that the evening has gone to the shit pound anyway, I answer, "Yes?"  
  
"Lex," he booms. He always manages to do that- occupy a huge room and the entire state of your mind by the dryness in his voice. "I have just received some interesting news."  
  
"And what might that be," I ask, mechanically.  
  
"The news of my son traipsing after young girls and attending the high school Prom."  
  
This was not very surprising. What is surprising is that it's taken him this long to ask me about it. "I'm amazed the news has reached you so late considering it was a decision made two days ago. Do I detect slackness in your choice of brown-nosers?"  
  
He ignores this, something he excels at, having had years of practice of ignoring me. "And what made you come to this decision, Lex?"  
  
"It really isn't any of your business, Dad."  
  
"I find hearing about my son who I have left in charge of a plant wasting his time chasing young girls instead to be very much my business."  
  
It's just so typical, bring up the fact that he's left me 'in charge' of the Smallville plant like it's a favor I should be eternally grateful for, despite the fact that it was not something I wanted in the first place. And I don't remember agreeing to sell my soul to him in exchange for it. "Left in charge? Funny how it seems like exile."  
  
"Lex," his voice takes on a threatening note. Something I have grown to be oblivious to for the past decade. "You are ruining your own reputation, do you understand that? You are digging your own grave. Scampering after young girls is not an image you want to project."  
  
"I'm just following your footsteps, Dad," I inform him airily.  
  
"Are you going to be obstinate about this?"  
  
"Certainly."  
  
"Fine. You can't say I didn't warn you, Lex."  
  
"Oh no, Dad. I couldn't EVER say that." The hostility in my voice seems to enforce silence over the line, which, if nothing else, serves to make me feel better.  
  
"I'll be dropping by Smallville soon."  
  
I don't reply, or at least, I wouldn't have had time to. His sentence ends with the abrupt click of the phone and the repetitive beeping noise of an engaged tone.  
  
"Love you too, Dad," I mutter ironically to myself. Resisting the urge to throw the phone at a nearby wall, I slip it into my inside pocket instead. Never lose control, Luthor. Even if you have lost all else, never lose your control.  
  
It's an omen. The last drive of the nail in the wall. There is no way in God's earth that this evening could get any better, and resigning myself to that thought, I decide to leave and go home. It was a colossal mistake to have left it in the first place, and I admit to that part of the blame. My dignity has been trampled on, and it's not something I would have ordinarily allowed to happen at all.  
  
Not without a riposte of performing physical damage to that person.  
  
Suddenly very tired, I take out my wallet to deposit some money on the table, when the sound of someone sliding into the seat opposite mine makes me look up.  
  
Chloe sits with a decidedly nervous look on her face.  
  
A vision of pink and yellow roses. A vision of a threat or a promise.  
  
I stare at her as she stares back at me wordlessly, two people with extensive vocabularies, now speechless by the sight of each other.  
  
Her blue eyes burn with a resolution although her body manners betray uncertainty.  
  
Her face belies the need to talk to me and I have acceded beyond my will.  
  
She smiles at me, shyly, and my wallet has moved from my hand and back into the safety of my pocket, my decision to leave has relapsed.  
  
"Hey, Lex." 


	18. The Interview Part 1

Author's Note: This chapter is a bit, okay very long, so I had to section it into two. Anyway, hope you guys enjoy it.  
  
* * * * * *  
  
LEX  
  
I cannot recall the last time I found speaking so strenuous. Perhaps there has never been another time. Perhaps this is my first time, and it justifies the reason why I am so bad at it.  
  
No, it's not justifiable. You cannot justify a puddle, and unfortunately that is what I have become- a puddle for people to step into, unable to solidify due to the sight of a girl.  
  
And right there belies another question: when was the last time that I ever, almost literally, melted at the sight of a smile? Never, for very good reason. Trust no one, love no one, like no one, be with no one. Four important factors to one rule: never live your life other than the way a Luthor should.  
  
Chloe doesn't fall into the category of mistrust. She is much too young and the intentions that burn in the blueness of her eyes do not speak deceit. She is, although she would hate me for thinking it, gullible. How can you distrust gullibility?  
  
Unfortunately, these traits of hers has appealed to me all the more, which is not something that I had planned to get sucked into. But feelings, although they can be remarkably well hidden, they are also non- suppressible.  
  
This is, if nothing else, one big fat joke.  
  
It takes me a few starts to get my words out. I'm still surprised, maybe even shocked, and the sight of Chloe seems more likely surrealism in The Talon than the real thing. I really did not expect to see her here.  
  
"Hello," I finally say. Still bewildered, "What brings you to this part of Smallville?"  
  
"Oh, well, you know, the Prom was a drag. Wanted a new environment."  
  
I glance around at me, at the patron-empty restaurant, which would be a dead space in town tonight if not for the two over-dressed customers in the corner. Self-consciously, I loosen my tie.  
  
"So you seek the Talon."  
  
"Yeah," she pauses. It takes her a few tries to say, "Actually, I was seeking you."  
  
"Oh?" Despite the coolness in my voice, my heart is pumping extraordinarily fast. I concentrate on the cup of coffee in front of me, while trying to regain some semblance of control. "What about?"  
  
"Our evening's not quite done yet."  
  
"Funny, it seemed well and truly over."  
  
She doesn't seem to know what to say to this, her mouth gapes open but no words come out to pillage me for living up to my reputation of being such a conceited asshole. The Normal Chloe would never allow me to continue breathing for such a remark.  
  
But instead of doing as such, she says, "Well, it's not."  
  
I don't reply. I' m surprised. And pleased, because if anything, her less- than-colorful answer indicates that she's more nervous than she looks.  
  
With an extra burst of courage: "You still owe me an interview."  
  
And there it is. I should have known. Of COURSE she would hunt me down for an interview; she's a reporter, after all. They seem to find no better way to waste their time than to poke their noses into other people's private affairs.  
  
I mean, seriously, what did I really think? She was going to come here to profess feelings? Tell me Clark's nothing to her? Propose to re-hash our non-kiss? Please.  
  
Fool.  
  
Me, not her.  
  
I reply (perhaps a tad petulantly), "I don't think so."  
  
She gapes at me. "Why not?" she demands.  
  
"It was an agreement," I remind her. "I take you to the Prom, you interview me. I DIDN'T take you to the Prom, and I was never your date tonight, which means, quite simply, that you don't get to interview me."  
  
She makes a noise like a dying bird. "WHAT?!"  
  
I hate repeating myself therefore I don't.  
  
Still gaping at me, she seems to be slowly taking my words in with difficulty, the way one might digest sharp rocks. "Let me get this straight," she says slowly. "I can't interview you because our DEAL was that if I ALLOWED you to take me to the Prom, then I can interview you. But because of a glitch that was wholly and entirely NOT my fault but YOURS for having something more important to do than to take me to the Prom, then I'm NOT allowed to interview you?"  
  
I nod. She explodes.  
  
"GOD, if that is not the most conceited thing I have EVER heard in my life! Remember that this was not MY CHOICE, YOU were the one who ditched ME, okay? TWICE! And for THAT you won't let me INTERVIEW YOU?! You probably PLANNED this, you cow, you self-centered, horrible, uncaring-"  
  
I suddenly had a terrible premonition of her bursting into tears. I don't need a crying teenager on top of everything else. In addition to that, when Chloe starts ranting, you never know when she'll stop, and I'm starting to get a migraine.  
  
I relent. "Fine, three questions."  
  
She makes the dying bird noise. "THREE QUESTIONS? That's not even an interview! You know what that is? That's a JOKE! It's hardly even a conversation!"  
  
Help me, God. "Fine, I'll allow five questions. All unrelated to my private life and any conspiracies regarding meteorite formulas or any other kind that you can think of. Five questions. Will that be sufficient enough for you?"  
  
"This interview is not subject to negotiation."  
  
"Wrong answer," I inform her, getting up from my seat.  
  
Dying bird noise. "FINE. Five questions. Treacherous cow."  
  
I take my seat again. "Added term and condition: any reference to me being anything remotely bovine with a bad attitude will result in my immediate departure."  
  
"You are therefore I say."  
  
"Let's refrain from voicing it out next time."  
  
"Fine," she says airily, caring less now that she has her interview back. "But ripping me off like this means you can at least buy me a cup of coffee."  
  
I'm sorely tempted to tell her to buy her own fucking caffeine fix but she ends the sentence with a big-as-the-world, mischievous smile, and it unfortunately floors me.  
  
"Okay," I agree, fighting down a temptation to match her smile with one of my own. "I've been looking for a test subject to experiment a new meteor formula, so what's your choice of poison?"  
  
"Cappuccino," she replies with another smile. "And as I always say, Lex, if you can't experiment mutilating toxic products on anyone else then you could always count on your friends." Then before I leave, she adds, "Anyway, caffeine at The Talon always manages to poison me, meteorite or no meteorite."  
  
"How about a little gratuity for free coffee?"  
  
"Oh you know me, Lex, forever grateful. Even with five questions," she says, flashing me another grin.  
  
Momentarily off balance, I leave her at this moment to regain some peace of mind, and fetch her cappuccino.  
  
  
  
CHLOE  
  
As soon as his back is turned towards me, I heave a huge sigh of relief.  
  
This is definitely a lot more difficult than I expected. I mean, I expected SOME difficulty. Naturally, being born pessimistic prepares you for stuff like these. But I didn't expect it to be so nerve-wracking. Which is really bad because stuff like this make my palms sweaty. And since I'm born accident prone, sweaty palms is like a death wish to any nearby breakable item.  
  
I was already thinking it all up in my head while watching Clark dance with the Prom Queen in place of the absent Prom King, which will undoubtedly spark off more of the attention that Lana seems to dislike basking in the limelight of. I watched them dancing and found myself oddly detached to them, as if I was watching two strangers in a TV show. I felt no connection and I felt very little else.  
  
I was wondering where Lex had gone. Did he go home? Was he taking a drive? Having a coffee at the Talon? I was opting for the first choice, because driving at his reckless speed seemed too much of a dangerous thing for me to even think about at that moment, and who would want to have coffee at the Talon voluntarily alone?  
  
When Clark was done and dutifully returned to his reluctant blonde date, I asked that he take me home.  
  
"What's wrong?" he asked.  
  
"Stomach cramps," I lied. He probably guessed. Luckily he didn't say anything.  
  
He drove me home in complete silence. The awkward variety.  
  
When he deposited me at the doorstep, he gave me a clumsy kiss on the cheek. "Chloe-," he started.  
  
I didn't feel like hearing it. Apologies. Warnings. Whatever. I didn't need an apology at the moment, and in my opinion he should be heeding his own warning; I might have a crush on the town millionaire but he seemed to have no qualms pursuing someone else's girlfriend. Whose priorities are screwed up, exactly?  
  
"Good-night, Clark," I said instead.  
  
The plan was brewing in my mind already. I had a legitimate reason to see him: he owed me an interview! Normally, nothing stands in between me and an exclusive interview, and I failed to see why circumstances tonight should stop me from getting it.  
  
Pretending to my father that I forgot something in Clark's truck, I borrowed his car and went on my merry way to claim an interview, obviously for the sake of The Torch. And just a little bit to do with me.  
  
Saving distance (and gas), I drove by the Beanery just in case he was there. When he wasn't, I sped through town, and screeched to a halt two blocks up at the Talon when I saw a familiar bald head.  
  
At that point in time, I was in a flurry of restless spirits. I was either: a) nervous or b) felt like vomiting or c) ready to haul ass out of there or d) determined to see him. I approached him near enough to hear him speaking over the phone, and when I heard that his voice seemed amiable enough, it gave me the last surge of courage and I walked straight up to him.  
  
Unfortunately, by the time I was near enough and all he had to do was look up to see me, I heard the bitterness in his voice and saw a look on his face that indicated a readiness to punch something - probably the first person in view i.e. me.  
  
I forced myself to slide into the seat opposite his.  
  
He was stunned. The puking feeling I felt in my stomach was getting worse, and I wondered how ironic it was that the first time I would have the guts to pursue a man would be when my face looks constipated.  
  
He recovered though. Too well. And now I'm left with an option of him leaving or an interview of five questions only.  
  
FIVE QUESTIONS. It's an insult to any reporter.  
  
Okay, okay. Five questions. What the hell can I accomplish in five questions? Think, Chloe, think. No meteorite references. No conspiracy. It's going to be the most God awful boring article ever.  
  
At least I still have my subject. And Lex Luthor is a great subject.  
  
He looked like he was about to be a great kisser, too.  
  
Let's stick to the great subject.  
  
What is my plan exactly? Sit here within reachable distance of each other, drink coffee, interview? God, it would take ten minutes. I was hoping for a renewal of affection, but looking at his state now, I think I would be extremely lucky to get a pat on the head.  
  
I could always be the one to initiate it. I could always tell him how I feel.  
  
I shudder at the thought. God, how embarrassing! What if he turned me down? What if he laughed? What if-  
  
"One cappuccino for the reporter in pink," Lex's dry voice cuts into my thoughts as he places a cup of cappuccino in front of me. "Okay," he says, businesslike, putting a cup of coffee in front of him. "Let's not detain the evening any further. Shall we begin?"  
  
I mean, seriously, if he really doesn't have feelings for me, does he have to be that blatant about it? Does he not realize how cruel he's being? God, he probably does. This is Lex Luthor, for crying out loud! He's heartless.  
  
For reasons that are partially nervous tension and partially annoyed at him for wanting to get things done and over with, I slowly take a tape recorder out of my bag and idly waste a minute situating it just right.  
  
He eyes me watchfully, almost intently, until I change the angle of the tape recorder the fifth time: "Chloe, can we get on with it?"  
  
I shake my head. "Everything has to be perfect." He rolls his eyes skyward. "Hey, you're only giving me five questions. Breathe a little, alright? Patience is a virtue."  
  
"Patience is a waste of time and is only well-suited on people who disregard inefficacy."  
  
I stop. "Are you saying I'm inefficient?" I demand.  
  
He swears, barely audibly. "NO, Chloe. I'm not. But I've had a rough night, and I'd rather finish this quickly."  
  
"Fine," I say, absent-mindedly, rewinding my tape. A burning curiosity forces the next question out of me: "You've had a rough night?"  
  
"Are you really going to waste one of your five questions on that?"  
  
Bastard. "I was being concerned, okay? Shoot me."  
  
He doesn't say anything, probably refraining himself from actually shooting me.  
  
The tape stops and I press record, before speaking into the recorder: "Okay. First interview with Lex Luthor that does not involve my being thrown out of a window. It's Prom night and we're at the Talon for some post-Prom coffee. Due to Mr. Luthor's request, we are limiting this interview to five questions. Good evening, Mr. Luthor."  
  
He smiles thinly.  
  
"Good evening, Mr. Luthor," I repeat, complete with airline stewardess sing- song voice.  
  
He sighs in resignation. "Good evening, Chloe."  
  
"Obviously, since we're limited to five questions only, we'll just cut to the chase okay? The Prom was lovely, the decorations um- imaginative, and Mr. Luthor had an overall wonderful time there, and he's pleased that Lana Lang won Prom Queen-"  
  
"I didn't have a wonderful time," he interrupts. "And call me Lex."  
  
"Why didn't-" I stop myself. No, no. Don't waste that question. "I mean, well, it's too bad you didn't have a wonderful time. I'm sure there must have been circumstances for this that I will not assume responsibility for. At all."  
  
"Unfortunately, Chloe, you were one of the reasons why I had such a shit time at the Prom. If not the main reason."  
  
I hate this man. I hate this man. I hate this man.  
  
I hit the Stop button. "Are you TRYING to distract me?" I hiss.  
  
"Not at all," he says, amiably. Then brushing my fingers aside from the recorder, he presses Record. "Continue."  
  
Breathe. Just breathe. 


	19. The Interview Part 2

"Okay, maybe we should shelve the topic of the Prom for another day-"  
  
"Oh, and I didn't know Lana Lang won Prom Queen. I left before then, if you recall."  
  
I could readily strangle him. "Something to do with me, no doubt."  
  
"No doubt." I'm about ready to scream at him, interview or no interview, when he adds, "Kindly extend my warmest congratulations to the lovely Ms. Lang."  
  
"Sure," I reply through gritted teeth.  
  
"So who won Prom King?"  
  
Does he forget easily? Is it not MY job to interview him? I haven't even asked him a single question and I've already wasted two minutes of my tape.  
  
I decide to humor him. That is, if having no other choice can be construed as a decision.  
  
"Whitney Fordham."  
  
"They must have made quite a stunning couple on the dance floor."  
  
"Doubtlessly," I say, glaring at him. Now I'm absolutely positive that he's just dawdling to piss me off, because there is no way in hell under ordinary circumstances that Lex Luthor would compliment Whitney. "It's too bad Whitney wasn't there."  
  
"No, he wasn't, was he? Something about an argument."  
  
"Perhaps."  
  
"So who did Lana dance with?"  
  
"Clark."  
  
He pauses for some time. I grab the opportunity with both hands. "SO, Lex. Back to the interview at hand. We've been hearing for some time now that Mr. Lionel Luthor is planning to visit the plant to hold a meeting with its entire staff. Any hints as to what the topic-"  
  
He cuts me off. AGAIN. "So, Clark danced with Lana?"  
  
I sigh. "YES."  
  
"YOUR date, danced with LANA?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Because Whitney wasn't there."  
  
The boy catches on really quick. Someone hand him a knife so he can end my humiliation. "Yes."  
  
Another pause.  
  
"Anyway! Back to the original question! Any idea as to what the meeting will-"  
  
"Are you okay with it?"  
  
I sigh loudly and press Stop. "Lex, seriously. If it's that big a deal to you, we can FORGET the interview okay? I mean, this is just plain dirty pool, alright? If it's that much of a bother, GOD, just TELL me so I can just piss off and leave you alone! I REALLY don't need to waste my time here. God knows I have wasted enough."  
  
He waits for me to finish before he says, "It's a legitimate question and I'm only asking because I actually do care. As inhuman as you might think of me at this moment."  
  
He was unfortunately right about the inhuman part. I narrow my eyes at him. "You're asking because you care," I echo.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"About me?"  
  
He doesn't reply. Huh. Wrong question, Chloe. Talk about overkill.  
  
"To answer your question: no I wasn't hurt about it. Well, okay, my pride was bruised to a color beyond recognition but my heart was making a stand for herself, thank you very much."  
  
"Am I hearing right? Chloe Sullivan's big heart beats no more for the dark- haired Wonder Boy? What does this signify?" he remarks, a little too callously for my liking.  
  
"Maybe I just woke up and started smelling the coffee."  
  
"We live forever in hope," he says dryly.  
  
"Or maybe Wonder Boy has been replaced."  
  
I said that last line for three, very good, reasons. They were: 1) Because it was the truth, 2) Because the sincerity would silence him long enough for me to continue my interview, 3) Because the sincerity would silence him and hence give me a small victory over the heartless cow in front of me.  
  
I'm not sure what kind of alternate universe we have strayed upon tonight, here at the Talon. It bewilders me that two people could have desired each other enough at one point to make an attempt at a kiss in front of the public, and it's no secret that the public is Lex's No. 1 enemy. And now, some time later the same said two people can't stop spitting venom at each other.  
  
As much as I would rather not be engaged in combat mode, I can't help it. I may be attracted to him, but I'm not spineless, and I won't let him walk all over me.  
  
Yes, I made a mistake. But it was an honest one! I shouldn't have acted the way I did when Clark suddenly appeared, but it was something that I couldn't help and it's not something that I'm inclined to apologize for. I was planning to apologize to him for making him feel unwanted, but he seems all adamant on war instead.  
  
Is this how he usually deals with all his unfinished issues?  
  
He's silent, and now I'm just too plain tired to be victorious. Wearily, I press the Record button again.  
  
Almost immediately, he presses the Stop button.  
  
The man wants me to drown, right now, and choke on my very own sea of emotions. Rather than doing that, I take a sip of my cappuccino and concentrate on the many levels of crappiness found in this one cup of coffee.  
  
I wait for him to say something. After a few false starts, he finally does.  
  
"How did this come about? The replacement, I mean. If that's the reason."  
  
I stare at him. At Lex. Fumbling with words. I'm sorely regretting the fact that I'm not recording this monumental moment.  
  
"Wow, talk about inefficacy. Talk much?"  
  
A blush diffuses his face and simultaneously he shoots me a murderous look. "Just answer the damn question."  
  
Pleased that I managed to get him to blush and a little awestruck at the fact that he can blush like a cute little kid and glare like a scary mafioso at the same time, I reply, "That is one of the reasons, yes. Although I'm not sure how it came about. It was a moment. Several moments, actually. And it all resulted in that: maybe it's time I focus my attention on someone else. Someone not necessarily better than him, but someone I find necessarily better anyway."  
  
He listens with a blank expression on his face.  
  
"You get that?"  
  
"Yes, I understand perfectly."  
  
"Great," I say, more brightly than I'm actually feeling (confess just a little bit and get rewarded with a blank face), and press the Record button again. "Okay, back to the interview-," I stop when I realize that I've forgotten what the question was. "Ahhhhh- yes! Lionel Luthor coming down to the Smallville plant for a big meeting with all of the staff. Know what that's about?" Too tired for pretty vocabulary right now.  
  
"No, I don't have a clue. I shouldn't worry too much about it. My father makes a yearly trip down to the Smallville plant to host a meeting with all the staff for no other reason than a pat on the back for a good year's work done."  
  
"Nice of him."  
  
"I suppose."  
  
"Speaking of the Smallville Plant, there have been rumors-"  
  
"Can I say something?"  
  
I stop immediately, more than a little surprised at his sudden request. Say something? Lex Luthor is notoriously famous for not saying a damn thing to reporters even when he does agree to have an interview. Now he wants to say something? Voluntarily?  
  
"Er, yeah. By all means. Um. Shoot."  
  
"Okay." He pauses, and the length of time of his silence seems to stretch to a point where I have to wonder if he's fallen asleep with his eyes open. "Not a lot of people know me."  
  
"Well, hating to differ, but a lot of people DO know you."  
  
He shoots me an annoyed look. "No, I mean, not a lot of people KNOW me. Me. Lex. Not Lex Luthor. Not manager of a plant. Not their father's bosses. Me."  
  
What on earth is he going on about? Is he soul searching? Is Lex Luthor soul searching right now, on tape, in front of my very eyes?  
  
"And due to this reason, there are several instances of misunderstanding. Just because I'm a renowned asshole doesn't mean that I am one. But at the same time, just because I'm nice to you now, doesn't mean I'm not an asshole."  
  
Mind-boggling. I wonder if I could ask him to repeat that 'asshole' comment. Never mind; I have it on tape.  
  
"To be less hazy on the matter," he continues. "Chloe, what you see of me or what you have heard of me or what we have done together does not dispute one factor: you don't know me at all. Perhaps you do, and perhaps you have reached an understanding of me that is, in your eyes, justifiably good enough. But you can't forget that you have only ever seen me in your world, you have never seen me in mine."  
  
I feel my stomach churning and the sudden desire to bolt for the bathroom hits me once again. I've only just begun to realize that this comment he's making is directed at me, and the burning question at whether or not something good or bad will come out of this has turned my general abdomen area in a queasy mess.  
  
"Lex-," I start.  
  
"I'm not finished."  
  
"Sorry," I say meekly.  
  
"Whatever feelings you have for me, if indeed there are any, might as quickly change the more you learn about me, and being yourself, I'm certain that you will try to learn more about me." Huh. Was that an insult? "To put it into laymen's terms, Chloe: you might just end up hating me."  
  
Oh. Well. If he puts it THAT way. As horribly inexperienced as I am with playboy billionaires, I was pretty sure nonetheless that if any feelings of the heart were to be expressed even in the tiniest of manners, that there would at least be SOME sweet talk involved.  
  
But that's just me being bitchy. Me being desperate is another thing altogether.  
  
Then he says, "And I don't want you to hate me. Not now. Not ever. Not if I can help it."  
  
And suddenly I'm a pile of mush lurking around the edges of his expensive shoes.  
  
He doesn't say anything else after that, just blanks out and stares down at his cup of cappuccino in front of him. If anyone were to walk in on us right now, from the expression on my face they would guess that I've just made another discovery with the meteors. From Lex's face, they'd probably think he was bored. No one could actually guess that he had, in his own oddly formal way, professed some form of feeling for me. But then again, I don't think anyone would have believed it anyway.  
  
I clear my throat and the noise echoes in my ears.  
  
"You know, you might end up hating me." He looks up at me. "No, seriously. I mean, I get under your skin now, imagine if you knew me better. Do you know Clark and Pete hide from me sometimes? And those are my best friends! Imagine how a boyf- I mean, a person just a tad more significant to me, would feel. I would probably drive you up the wall. Hell, you'll be hiding from me too."  
  
When I look back at him, the corners of his mouth are upturned in one of his infamous half-smiles. "Is that so?" he says, amused.  
  
"Absolutely. Plus, I'll be forever bugging you about exclusive interviews and such."  
  
"That IS a pain."  
  
"That it is," I agree (just this once, though). "So really, you might just end up hating me first, and then you'd wish for me to hate you back."  
  
"Interesting."  
  
I grin at him (I can't help it- some part of me realizes that I should be acting the demure female but my big fat mouth just won't quit smiling) and he semi-smiles back, and we stare at each other like that for some time.  
  
When my tape recorder suddenly stops and the noise shocks the living daylights out of me, then I decide to speak again.  
  
"What are we talking about exactly?"  
  
He looks at me with a bemused expression on his face. "Us."  
  
"Oh," I say, blushing to the tips of my hair. "Well, um, okay. Did we reach a conclusion about us?"  
  
"Not yet," he replies. "But it looks promising."  
  
LEX  
  
Chloe can't stop smiling, no matter how much of an effort it takes for her to keep her face straight. When my eyes stray upon her face, she seems to be fighting a losing battle with her cheekbones. Her face contorted, expressions grotesque and her lips pursed, until the irrepressible smile cracks and diffuses radiance across her face. It is heart-achingly adorable.  
  
We sit here in the Talon and for the first time in my life, I appear to be without an itinerary or a program to indicate what's supposed to happen next. I've spoken words; words to make my interest detectable to her and she has returned the favor. Where are we supposed to go from here? I can't exactly draw up a contract and shake hands over it, although that would be what I'm best at. There are no contracts in the affairs of the heart. Is there a cue I should be taking or an expression I should be showing? We sit here and we wait wordlessly for the next response, and I can't manage it.  
  
It's a situation wherein my fancy has taken control over my brain and I feel hapless against it.  
  
But does that matter at all when I'm as happy as this?  
  
I am, undeniably, irrevocably, simply happy.  
  
In a manner of which its meaning I never knew exists.  
  
I've always been a shade away from heartless. And whatever heart there is in me, I take extreme care in keeping it hidden from others. One might wonder why I choose to be this way, whereas to me it's as natural as breathing. I was brought up this way. And no matter how well you can take the man away from the bastard, you can't take the bastard away from the man.  
  
So I choose to remain this way. And maybe that explains why I have such a particular taste in women. If they're not beautiful and worthless, then they're beautiful and likely to rip me off. I choose them for my own personal benefit, as a way to pass the time, but never as someone I intend to remain with.  
  
What cruel twist of fate did God have planned for me that would make me rip my heart out and present it to a teenager on a silver plate?  
  
Chloe is happy. This is not something she believes she should hide from the world. If she is happy, then she is complete. She doesn't need anything else from me, just me. It's enthralling and I'm left breathless at the exhilaration of the thought of her.  
  
How did this girl manage to procure these feelings for me, despite me?  
  
A foot nudges my foot and she's grinning at me. "What are you thinking so hard about?"  
  
I smile back and shake my head. "Nothing in particular."  
  
"You know, as much as I love this silence between us right now, I really should be going," she says, ruefully.  
  
I feel a pang of disappointment, but I'm complying if nothing else. As she gathers her things together, I pay for our (crap) coffee, and we take leave.  
  
The night is cool as we step outside of the Talon with bad cappuccinos in our system and just a little fuzz of excitement. I glance down at her and see her grinning up at the sight of the stars above us.  
  
"Do you know the constellations?" she suddenly asks, her face still tilted skywards.  
  
"No," I admit.  
  
"Yeah? I always figured you the kind to know everything."  
  
"That would make me a form of God, I think."  
  
"And it's so fitting because you already have a God complex," she teases.  
  
"Funny."  
  
"Hey, I'm here all week," she gives me an impish smile that sort of kills me, before she walks towards her car, which is parked in front of mine.  
  
She opens her door and almost uncertainly, turns around and glances at me. I'm not sure what expression it is that she's seeing on my face, or if it's pure nerve on her part, because she turns around and walks away from the car and towards me, before she wraps her arms around my neck.  
  
"For what it's worth, this is the best evening I've ever had."  
  
I'm not sure whether it's disturbing me or relieving me when I hear those words. Is she saying that this is the last time? That she realizes it could never happen? The vagueness of her sentence makes me withdraw from her enough to look into her face.  
  
"Oh yeah," she says, seeing my face. "I know. It's a bit mad, isn't it? Would it even work? I mean, HOW could it work? There's so much difference there, and it's debatable if we could ever make ends meet."  
  
And I just don't know what to say to that.  
  
Just looking at her now, her earnest face, recognizing what I was thinking and my mixed-up feelings about this. How can I be with her? How on God's green earth will this ever work?  
  
Yet, at the same time, how can I not try?  
  
Instead of replying, I lean down and lightly press my lips against hers. After the initial shock has worn off, her arms tighten around my neck and she responds to my kiss. Her lips are clumsy but passionate, the mark of an inexperienced kisser, but her lips are also sweet despite the tinge of cappuccino on them, and the combination of this with the apple scent from her skin makes me heady in rhapsody.  
  
We stand there, unable to stop kissing each other, for what feels like hours. This is the cue I would usually take to whisk her off to my bedroom to kiss her good and proper, but I wouldn't do that with Chloe. Not yet.  
  
When we finally part, she breathes heavily against me, the mark of a great kiss.  
  
"You know," I say to her, "We can always try."  
  
She smiles and hugs me hard. "Yeah, I was hoping you'd say that."  
  
I hug her back and feel remarkably., optimistic. And light. Light-headed, light-footed, light-hearted. I'm happy, in the simplest sense of the word.  
  
And as I said, why would anything matter when I'm as happy as this?  
  
* * * * * *  
  
Author's Note: I'm not sure if the ending's hokey or what but oh well.  
  
I have to thank everyone for the lovely, lovely reviews. What a buzz :) 


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